


Uppsalir

by gwyllion



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, NaNoWriMo, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 04:11:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 66,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17615234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyllion/pseuds/gwyllion
Summary: In the raid at Lindisfarne, Ragnar takes a blow to the head and is knocked unconscious. Thinking Ragnar is dead, his kinsmen leave him behind on the beach. When Ragnar awakens, he suffers from amnesia. He cannot remember why he sailed west, or what transpired at the monastery. Athelstan discovers his bruised body on the shore, and they embark on an adventure that challenges their faiths, their lives, and their love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gilli_ann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilli_ann/gifts).



> Uppsalir was written for NaNoWriMo 2018. My son, a 23-year old Special Operator in the US Navy, has grown up with a mother who wrote fanfic. When he first started watching Vikings, five years ago, he said, “Mom, you would love this ‘ship—it’s exactly your kind of thing!” I ignored him. In hindsight, I probably thought he meant the Viking’s boat. I watched Vikings over the summer of 2018 while my son was deployed. I immediately discovered this beloved ship that sank a few years ago. After a few episodes, I fell in love with Athelstan and Ragnar. Nothing can console me over the fact that I did not watch this show when it first aired. My kid was right—these two devastatingly beautiful boys and their complicated relationship have wrecked me! So, I’m very late to the party, as they say, but I hope that this fic comforts those who loved Athelnar, as much as it has comforted me to write about their canon-divergent adventure.  
> Thanks to everyone at The History Channel Vikings—I am so grateful for the inspiration to make more art out of these characters.  
> Thanks to milkteaghost, the author of [ this Tumblr post](http://milkteaghost.tumblr.com/post/127932076830/imagine-a-villain-getting-injured-and-losing-their), that prompted this story when I considered writing an Athelnar fic for my 2018 NaNoWriMo.  
> Thanks to outpastthemoat, the author of [ this Tumblr post](http://outpastthemoat.tumblr.com/post/177835751781), who unknowingly provided a completely workable outline for this fic when I started with a blank page on the first day of NaNoWriMo.  
> This fic is dedicated to my (real-life Norwegian!) cheer-reader, beta, and the best shieldmaiden ever, [Gillian.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilli_ann/pseuds/Gilli_ann) If Norse fanfic is your thing, check out her epic Brokeback Mountain fic, [Saga](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1622714?view_full_work=true). It is a fandom classic.  
> Uppsalir = Old Norse: upper halls, upper dwellings.  
> Quoted prayers come from the Northumbria Community’s website: https://www.northumbriacommunity.org
> 
> So, without further ado, let's go!

“Let’s go.”

With closed eyes, Ragnar collapsed in the darkness.

Feet shuffled across the wet sand.

Ragnar lay still in the muddy flats that had been stained dark by the incoming tide. He had curled in on himself, unable to stand. The water lapped at his feet. Somewhere, he had lost a boot. His bare foot twitched in a losing fight against the icy waves.

In the distance, the shouts of fleeing men echoed in the surf.

Unfamiliar thuds of wet wood echoed across the sand. Oars locked into their slots and strained against the boards as each man dipped an oar into the water.

The bloodied Northmen pulled their ship away from the shore, their muscles taut with renewed vigour. The carried their hoard home, leaving behind their grievously wounded to be greeted by Odin in Valhalla.

Ragnar’s fingers clutched at the bloodied sand.

One eye opened.

The grit made Ragnar’s eye sting and flood with liquid. Although Ragnar longed to wipe the offending grains away, his hands disobeyed his commands. He could not lift a weary limb from the muck and mire of the desolate beach.

Through his one open eye, Ragnar watched, motionless. On the distant waves, strange men rounded the beachhead, making their escape from these lands.

Their longship sliced through the sea. The sail unfurled to carry them further away. A mighty dragon rose from the wood of the bow. Ragnar thought he recognized it, just as he recognized the taste of salt on his lips. He knew it somehow, although he could not remember how he came to understand the way it spiked against his tongue.

_Salt and earth to remind you that you belong to the land and the sea…_

Ragnar watched as the ship grew smaller and smaller on its voyage to the horizon. Before he could dwell on its significance, his world went black again.

~

Athelstan picked his way along the shore. A cold breeze whipped his hair. He pushed back the strands that stabbed at his eyes and looked out toward the relentless sea. The sun’s rays licked at the waves, but they did nothing to warm Athelstan’s bones.

He tried to make sense of all that had transpired in the past two days. His mentor was dead. His brotherly friends lay in a cold grave beside the monastery. Although a few monks had put up enough of a fight to injure some of the invading Northmen, their efforts had not prevented the desecration of the monastery and the loss of their sacred relics. The monks were scribes and scholars, after all. There were no fighters among them.

Athelstan wandered the seaside with trepidation in his heart. His pulse raced as quickly as the beat of a hummingbird’s wings. He knew not what he would do if he encountered more of the heathens who had invaded their peaceful island. He prayed that God and his only begotten Son would save him and his brothers from the same tragedy that befell Father Cuthbert and his friends who the heathens slew a day earlier.

Judgement Day was coming indeed. Perhaps it was already here.

Athelstan poked at the dune grass with his staff. The hem of his habit was soaked with seawater. A white boundary of salt marked where the fabric had dried in the midday sun.

Despite his fears, Athelstan hoped for a sign that would guide him in the difficult days to come. If he found any of the monastery’s treasures that the Northmen had dropped in their haste to retreat from Lindisfarne with their quarry, Athelstan would accept it as a signal that his Lord had listened to his most fervent prayers. With his sandaled feet sinking into the slop at the shoreline, Athelstan looked at the vast and vacant sea. But on this day, there were no signs from his benevolent God.

“Brother Athelstan, come quickly!”

Athelstan stirred from his reverie and scanned the horizon.

Brother Matthew shouted from the distant mud flats where the low tide revealed pools teeming with crabs and tiny periwinkles. It was here that almighty God sometimes left a gift from the receding sea. Perhaps Athelstan would find his sign here.

Athelstan hurried along the sand. His sandals slipped in the mucky terrain as he made his way toward his friend. Whatever relief he felt when Brother Matthew called evaporated when he saw what lay on the beach. This was no golden crucifix, no chalice, or sacred relic. The Northman lay amidst the seaweed and debris that had littered the coastline from the last storm.

“He’s dead,” Matthew said.

Athelstan shivered in the cold.

The Northman was half-naked, his clothing torn in battle. Whether his clothes suffered from its battle with the sea or with the monks who took up arms against the Northmen, Athelstan could not say. It was unlikely that the monks could have inflicted much damage upon the warrior from the north. The man looked to be more solidly built than most of the invaders Athelstan had encountered in their raid.

A ragged tunic stretched across one of the man’s shoulders. His trousers had been torn to shreds by the jagged rocks that lay beneath the surf. They hardly covered the Northman’s legs, one of which was bent obscenely out of shape. One foot wore a boot, while the other foot’s toes were curled in as much as the Northman’s body had heaved into itself at the place where the waves met the shore. A belt that may have harboured an axe or another weapon- such as those Athelstan saw used against his brothers, hung loose from the Northman’s waist.

Athelstan knelt in the muddy sand. He touched his fingers to the Northman’s skin. He had lost all human colour. The surf had beaten him and bruised his scalp. Blood seeped from the gash that had split his skull. The wound oozed a deep red and the surrounding swollen flesh bloomed with bursts of deep purples and blues. Athelstan traced the tattoos that wove a path from ear to brow across the mottled flesh, where the head had been shaved bare. The hair at the top of the Northman’s head had been woven into a long braid that someone once had tended with care.

Athelstan slid his fingers along the braid from root to tip, admiring the intricacy that he found in the weaving there. If this man were to stand at his full height, he would send fear into Athelstan’s heart. But here, dead on the beach, he was as harmless as a kitten.

“Is he well and truly dead?” Brother Matthew whispered.

“I think he must be,” Athelstan replied.

He touched his fingers to the Northman’s neck, feeling for a pulse that might indicate that he had survived his ordeal. It seemed unlikely that this pulp of a man could ever be whole again.

Athelstan’s eyes flew open when the Northman sucked in a breath. He fell backwards into the muck, his feet catching in the hem of his habit.

Brother Matthew made the sign of the cross and gasped when the Northman reached for him.

The Northman’s fist clenched the rope that circled Matthew’s waist.

Matthew reached for the tiny wooden crucifix that hung from the rope. He held it in outstretched hands, as if to ward off the heathen. Prayers fell from Matthew’s lips.

The Northman only grunted in pain.

When Athelstan regained his balance, he crawled to his knees, his feet clumsily seeking purchase in the mire.

“You’re alive,” Athelstan gaped.

Matthew freed his cincture from the Northman’s grasp.

The heathen’s arm dropped with a splash into the muck.

The moment of terror in the mud while the Northman lunged after Matthew gave way to silence enough for Athelstan to think, to piece together the notion that this man’s companions had left him on the beach to die. And die he very well may, if Athelstan did not take steps to remove him from the cold sand and tend to his wounds. Despite the invader’s actions at Lindisfarne, Athelstan felt some small amount of empathy for him, with his bashed skull and his ragged clothing.

The Northman’s shoulders shifted with his breath. He lifted his head from the sand and coughed through a mighty fit. His eyes opened and focused on Athelstan.

Athelstan watched with a knitted brow. The glacial blue of the Northman’s eyes pinned him in place. If the heathen had wished to slay him on the spot, Athelstan could no more move than he could catch his breath in the cold wind that rushed forward with the incoming tide.

“Ein hvert?” the Northman muttered weakly, when he caught his breath. His eyes darted from Athelstan to Matthew before he fell into a fit of coughing again.

“What is he saying?” Matthew tugged at Athelstan’s sleeve. He looked uncomprehendingly at Athelstan, then at the Northman.

“Ein hvert?” the Northman asked, his voice growing stronger as he regained his breath.

“Lindisfarne,” Athelstan replied, as calmly as he could. He knew the Northman’s language from his studies. He had learned the Northman’s words, along with several other languages that he hoped would help him bring the word of God to the savages. Unlike many monks who sequestered themselves away, content to illuminate manuscripts and translate the scrolls from far and wide into their own language, Athelstan sought purpose in communicating in as many languages that were known. He hoped that his knowledge would serve God in some meaningful way. It seemed that his studies were not put to waste.

“Can you understand him, Brother Athelstan?” Matthew asked.

“This is Lindisfarne, in the kingdom of Northumbria,” Athelstan assured the Northman in his own language.

The Northman struggled to get to his feet. His knees sank into the muddy sand, throwing him off balance. Athelstan was certain that one of the man’s legs were broken.

“My name is Athelstan. What is your name?”

“Du no Odin… du no Thor….” the Northman said before closing his eyes and resting his cheek on the sand.

“What did he say?” Matthew asked.

“I don’t think he knows his name. We need to get help,” Athelstan said with a nod.

“Help?” Matthew asked. “He tried to kill our people. What if he attacks us?”

“I hardly think he’s in any shape to mount an attack on us.”

Against his better judgement, Athelstan took a moment to let his eyes rove over the muscles of the Northman’s arms. If the man were in good health, he would look as if his physique had been carved by God himself.

Athelstan quickly put away whatever sinful thoughts threatened to emerge in his mind. With Father Cuthbert dead, and no one to help the monks until their next delivery of supplies came to the tidal island in one month’s time, someone had to stand up and make a decision about the Northman. Perhaps his appearance on the beach was the sign Athelstan had hoped God would provide.

Athelstan steeled himself and vowed to do his best to restore Lindisfarne to order. The younger monks could depend on him for guidance. And if the older monks and those who brushed aside Athelstan’s convictions, like Father Cuthbert did when Athelstan confessed to him that he believed Judgement Day had come to Lindisfarne, well, they could try to prove him wrong.

“There is no one but God himself to guide us now,” Athelstan said. 

Matthew sighed. “What would Father Cuthbert do?”

“Brother Matthew, there is no one to help us,” Athelstan said. “Father Cuthbert is dead. There is no way we can guide this man the half-mile back to the monastery with our strength alone and we do need to bring this man inside before he perishes.”

“But you saw how our brothers cowered when the Northmen attacked. They will not hear of it,” Matthew argued with a wave of his hands.

“We cannot leave this man here to die,” Athelstan said. “As it stands, I doubt he will live to see another sunrise unless we provide him with some shelter. Remember our lessons, as our Lord spoke according to your own namesake, _when I was hungry, you gave me food. When I was thirsty, you gave me drink. I was a stranger to your land and you welcomed me.”_

“But this is no stranger,” Matthew said. “What about _Thou shalt not kill_?”

Athelstan placed his hand on the Northman’s cold head. He could only imagine the pain that his injury caused. He hoped that he would become conscious again.

“He doesn’t seem to know where he is,” Athelstan said, meeting Matthew’s eyes. “I fear that leaving him here to die will be a far worse sin than killing a man outright.”

Matthew bit his lip and turned to face the sea. “We will both be wracked with guilt if we leave him here,” he sullenly confessed.

“It is God’s will that we have found him. I will go back to the monastery and seek some monks who will help carry him to shelter,” Athelstan said.

“No,” Matthew said, “you can speak his language and I cannot. I fear what would happen if he awakened again and I was alone in his company, unable to communicate my… goodwill.”

Athelstan thought for a moment. Brother Matthew was right. He didn’t want to risk the Northman becoming agitated in the absence of someone who might communicate with him.

“Very well,” Athelstan said, settling himself in the muddy sand beside the fallen warrior. “I will stay here with the Northman and await your return.”

And, so it was agreed.

Athelstan settled a hand on the Northman’s shoulder and watched Matthew pick his way across the beach toward the monastery.

~

Ragnar awoke to the same cold chill that had plagued him through the previous night that he had spent lying on the beach. He opened an eye to see the solitary man by his side. His other eye was swollen shut again, leaving him as blind as Odin, but with no compensatory knowledge. The strange man sat with his knees bent, his arms wrapped around them to ward off the cold. His shapeless brown garb pulled tight against him by the wind.

Ragnar found himself feeling jealous that the man had clothing to protect him from the cold. Although he could scarcely move, his hand instinctively shifted to his waist, his thumb catching on the leather belt that somehow seemed to remain intact. But he knew not why his hand went to his belt. It was a trick of muscle memory that belonged to some long-forgotten task.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, some innate part of him compelled Ragnar to take what was there for the taking. But he knew not why. And he knew not how. His leg shrieked in pain. In his current state, he was in no condition to do anything but lie on the wretched beach.

“You’re awake again,” the monk noted, using Ragnar’s language.

Ragnar nodded.

A vicious wind blew in from the sea.

“Matthew has gone back to the monastery to get help,” Athelstan said, he pointed toward the bluff where a figure, clad in the same garb as Athelstan, made his way toward the distant monastery.

Ragnar licked his lips and tried to process the strange accent of the monk’s speech.

“Matthew?” Ragnar asked, his voice strained. His throat ached. He felt as if he had swallowed an ocean of sand. “You are Matthew?”

“No, no,” Athelstan replied. “My name is Athelstan. I am a monk from the monastery. Brother Matthew has gone to ask some of the others if they will help bring you there. I do not think you can walk, and I’m not strong enough to carry you alone.”

“Brother?” Ragnar asked. His head pounded. He wished that Athelstan would slow down. “That man was your brother?”

“Not a brother in the sense that you might be familiar with,” Athelstan said. “He studies the scriptures with me. We pray together and bring the word of God to others. He has gone to find help to bring you to shelter. There will be a fire there to warm you. Perhaps we can treat your wounds, but for the time being, the safest thing is to pray for your restoration to health. As it is, I’m afraid you’re not long for this world—”

“Brother….” Ragnar said. The word made him recall a distant memory. “My brother… I had a brother….”

“You did?” Athelstan asked. Ragnar could hear the excitement in his voice. “That’s a wonderful thing—you’re remembering who you are… and… how you arrived here?”

“Athelstan.”

“Yes, that’s my name. And who are you?” Athelstan asked him gently, as if he were speaking to a child.

“Athelstan… Athelstan… be silent.”

Ragnar recalled a shred of memory. If circumstances were more ordinary, he would have sliced this man from stem to stern to keep him from prattling on. He would take his clothing as his own and stride into the monastery to quench his bloodlust. But with no knife, no blade, and no stable legs to support him, he could only helplessly wait for the other brother… Matthew… to return.

“Rollo,” Ragnar said. His head throbbed.

“And you are Rollo? That’s what you’re called?” Athelstan asked.

Ragnar could not remember how he knew the name. Was Rollo his brother? Were they together on the beach? He did know one certain thing—these men, clothed in brown sacks that billowed in the wind, were not the same men who had sailed away from the shore, leaving him behind.

“No… Ragnar….” Ragnar said, remembering a name from his past that seemed certainly to be his own.

“Ragnar?” Athelstan asked. “Well, now we’re getting somewhere, Ragnar.”

If Ragnar lifted his head from the sand, he could see the roof of the monastery, some distance beyond the bluff and the seagrass that gave way to the muddy flats where he lay. He hoped that Matthew hurried. He had long since stopped shivering and all feeling had drained from his limbs.

Athelstan shifter closer to him. He took Ragnar’s hand in his own. Ragnar’s fingers, crippled by the cold, could not tolerate being cradled in Athelstan’s warm hand. He pulled his hand away, refusing the offer of comfort that came at too high of a price. He would suffer nobly, instead. His reward might come in Valhalla.

Valhalla… although the place existed somewhere in his memory, Ragnar knew not the meaning of such a place or how he might arrive there.

“Ragnar? Do you remember how you got here?” Athelstan asked. He sounded nervous now, and his head turned from Ragnar to watch for Matthew and the men who Matthew had promised to gather.

Ragnar looked past Athelstan to try to catch a glimpse of the men who would come to his aid, but there were no men approaching the beach.

“The men who will come,” Athelstan said, his eyes darting toward the monastery. “They may be less keen to help you than I am.”

Ragnar watched Athelstan’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed and struggled for words. He looked worried.

“You… Ragnar… you and your men from the north came here. You killed. You stole. You burned. You and your people have left Lindisfarne in ruins.”

This amused Ragnar. He let out an exhausted sigh. Why, then, would these men come to help him in his time of need? Were they fools? 

“I know not the people of whom you speak,” Ragnar said.

“You’ve been injured,” Athelstan said, touching Ragnar’s hand again. “Perhaps the blow you took to your head has damaged your memories. Such things have happened to people before.”

This time, Ragnar did not pull his hand away. Instead, he tested the monk.

“If my people, my men, did all these things as you say we did,” Ragnar asked. “How can I be sure that you are not going to kill me?”

Athelstan seemed to take a moment to process what Ragnar said before he did what Ragnar least expected. He burst into laughter, covering his mouth with his hand. It was the strangest sound Ragnar had heard since he had awoken on the beach in this strange world.

“Oh, Ragnar, I am a monk, a man of God… like a priest,” he argued. Athelstan let go of Ragnar’s hand and shifted onto his knees, his sandaled feet sinking into the mire.

Ragnar recalled that he had once met a priest, but he could not remember where.

“We do not kill. If you could remember the events of yesterday, you might understand that we cannot even fight. I don’t know who struck you in the back of your head, but my guess is that it was by…” Athelstan searched his vocabulary to find the words he was looking for, “chance that the blow landed at all.”

“Fate,” Ragnar said. Still, he wracked his brain to try to remember battles of the past, but when he searched for the time when he and his kinsmen had slain monks such as these, he drew nothing from his memory. Perhaps Athelstan was lying, although it seemed unlikely.

Athelstan shook his head from side to side. “The monks will be coming soon, Ragnar. You needn’t fear them… most of them… at least I don’t think you need to fear me.”

Ragnar looked up at Athelstan. The sincerity in his eyes made him look less fearsome than Ragnar had first thought. Things were starting to make more sense now. Perhaps this Athelstan was the Chieftain of the monks. If so, Ragnar believed he would be safe with him.

Athelstan placed a warm hand on his back. 

Ragnar rested his head on the cold beach again and waited for help to arrive.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ragnar remembered another beach. There had been a battle. Some of his kinsmen had been slain. He had placed his hand on a fallen friend’s back, just as Athelstan did to him now. The warmth seeped from Athelstan’s hand to Ragnar’s cold skin. He hoped that he had provided the same comfort to his fallen kinsmen as Athelstan now offered to him, as he lay helpless on the beach.

~


	2. Chapter 2

The journey from the cold beach to the monastery was long and arduous. Although it was only a half-mile in distance, it took more than an hour for the monks to carry their unwieldly load over the jagged rocks and slippery sand. Athelstan welcomed the half-dozen monks who ventured out from their hiding places to join Brother Matthew and himself in the rescue of Ragnar, the Northman.

Brother Matthew had the foresight to bring several rough sheets from the monastery laundry with him. With the monks’ help, they were able to roll Ragnar onto the sheets from where he lay on the beach. Ragnar had not regained consciousness again, unless Athelstan took his various grunts and groans into consideration.

Athelstan was pleased that so many monks had followed Matthew in his journey to the water. He suspected those who wanted nothing to do with the rescue of the Northman had remained at Lindisfarne, either cowering in their dormitory or planning how to rid themselves of the devil who belonged to the tribe of men who had attacked their brothers. May God forgive them for their thoughts of violence against this suffering man.

Athelstan couldn’t blame his brothers for being wary. The Northmen had attacked without warning and they spared almost no Englishman they encountered. In some ways, Athelstan considered himself lucky that he was spared the worst of their actions. He searched for a reason that God had allowed him to escape the raid with his life, only to fall into another challenging situation by discovering Ragnar on the beach.

This ordeal was surely the Lord’s way of challenging Athelstan to rise to the occasion and do God’s will. Perhaps it was God’s will that he delivered his word to this heathen. Why else would God have put Ragnar in his path?

God works in mysterious ways, Athelstan had often realized. He hoped that his connection with God would only strengthen if he could prevent the heathen from engaging in the crude warlike behaviour Athelstan had witnessed when his brothers were slain. He had brought the word of God to many places in his travels. Perhaps God wanted him to bring his word to the heathens, starting with this one injured Northman. He supposed he would have to wait and see if Ragnar survived another day to find out.

Athelstan stepped over the stones that led to the monastery gate, still hanging off its hinges from the raid. The scent of burnt wood filled his nostrils. Although he and several of the other monks did their best to keep the fires from spreading, there was damaged wood to be replaced and walls to repair. It would be a long summer of hard work if they were to get Lindisfarne back into good condition before winter came.

As the monks carried the Northman’s litter toward the monastery, Athelstan remembered the carnage of the raid all too well. Maybe this was God’s greatest test for him—the loss of his friends measured against the saving of this Northman’s soul. Athelstan knew he had to do his best to reconcile what God was asking of him with the wreckage that the Northmen had left behind.

“You can’t mean to treat him in our dormitory,” Brother Finian objected as soon as the monks entered the main hall of the monastery.

“Show some compassion. He’s injured and he may not survive the night,” Athelstan retorted.

Athelstan glanced around the small dormitory where the monk’s beds lined the walls. Usually two dozen monks could sleep comfortably in this room. A half-dozen monks had been killed. Another half-dozen had been captured and taken away on the sea. There was plenty of room in the dormitory. The bunks were sturdy, if uncomfortable. Athelstan had always been grateful to sleep on something besides the hard floor that he knew before he came to live at Lindisfarne. Still, Athelstan did not want to argue about where the Northman might stay.

“He needs to rest somewhere. He’s been lying on the beach, exposed to the elements since sometime yesterday,” Athelstan said.

“I don’t care if you bring him back to the beach to lay him to rest,” Finian said, wringing his hands. “He doesn’t belong here, Brother Athelstan.”

“Finian, that would be cruel beyond measure,” Athelstan said with a clenched jaw. “What you suggest would be no more helpful than the damage the raiding Northmen brought here yesterday.”

“Look,” Matthew said, pushing his way between Athelstan and Finian, “I know you’re angry because of the attack on our brothers, but this man is still alive. We need to do what the Lord would have us do with him. If we can heal him, so be it. I don’t care where he sleeps.” 

“I agree with you, Matthew,” Athelstan said. 

Athelstan wanted the arguing to end. All the monks had experienced the ghastly ordeal of the attack on the monastery. Now that the bodies had been buried, and supplies had been rationed, it was time to work together for the common good. There was still much work to be done to restore Lindisfarne to the condition it was in before the Northmen attacked. It was no use arguing about where an injured man would sleep.

“I know where we can take the Northman, where he will not be a bother to the monks who object,” Athelstan said. It seemed unconventional, and rather sacrilegious, but it was the only option at the time. Athelstan clasped the nearby shoulder of Daniel, one of the monks who had helped carry the litter back to the monastery and said, “Follow me.”

Daniel directed the monks to hoist the litter again and they followed Athelstan out of the dormitory.

Athelstan led the men down the torch-lit hall, past the scriptorium, to where the more private rooms of the monastery were built into the stone walls. He grabbed a torch from one of the braziers and carried it to the end of the hall. He pushed the door open. A crucifix greeted him from above the bed in the dim room. A tiny window on the far wall showed that the sun would soon be gone. Athelstan’s stomach rumbled with hunger. The day on the beach had passed slowly, but now with the fading daylight, the dinner hour had come and gone.

“But this is Father Cuthbert’s room,” Matthew said.

“This will be far enough away from Finian and the others who are wary about sharing their quarters with the Northman,” Athelstan said. “It’s for our own good that this man is not visible to the monks who survived the worst of the attack. There’s no need to upset them further by flaunting this man’s whereabouts in the faces.”

“You’re right Brother Athelstan,” Daniel said. “Our brother’s nerves are frayed enough because of the lives lost at this man’s hands.”

“I hope they remember,” Brother Lucian said. “Whatsoever you did for the least of my brothers, such you have done unto me.”

Athelstan was glad that at least Brother Lucian was sympathetic.

“Let’s bring him over to the bed,” Brother Benedict said. “He’s not getting any lighter.”

“Despite the fact that he hasn’t eaten in days,” Athelstan quipped. He supposed he should be grateful that he had the help from most of his brothers as they lifted the sheet carrying the Northman to the bed that once belonged to Father Cuthbert.

“You should stay with him, Athelstan,” Lucian said. “Matthew informed us that you can speak his language.”

“Yes,” Athelstan said, turning to Lucian. “It would be for the best.”

Still, Athelstan feared what might happen if he was left alone with Ragnar. He would not be able to defend himself against the might of a Northman, despite his injured state. If it was God’s will that Athelstan be killed, then he would do his best to accept it and hope that his death would serve as a lesson to others.

“I’ll go to the kitchen to find something for you to eat,” Matthew said, clasping Athelstan’s shoulder. “You must be as hungry as I am.”

“May God be with you, brother,” Benedict said, as he and the remaining monks left Athelstan by Ragnar’s bedside.

Athelstan closed the door behind them and went to the fireplace. He knelt before the hearth and searched inside for the warm peat. His fingers were stiff with cold. He could only imagine how Ragnar felt after lying on the beach for a night and most of a day.

Satisfied that the peat was warm enough to revive, Athelstan used the small broom to brush the ash from it. He blew on the peat until it smouldered, the smoke puffing minimally into the room before it rose up the chimney.

Athelstan wiped his hands on his habit and got to his feet. It would take a while for the room to warm, so Athelstan busied himself with tending to Ragnar’s cold and bloody body.

Inside Father Cuthbert’s blanket chest, Athelstan found a woven throw with fur edging. He held it in his outstretched arms before the fireplace. Someone had obviously taken great care to weave a pattern into the blanket. Athelstan suspected Father Cuthbert’s sister had given the blanket to him on one of her rare visits to the monastery.

Athelstan grimaced. He dreaded the day when the men came to resupply the monastery with goods. The monthly delivery of news to the monks went both ways. He regretted that he would have to inform the men of Father Cuthbert’s death. It saddened him to think of the grief it would cause to his family.

While Father Cuthbert had a family, it was rare for a cloistered monk to have a family member interested in learning about the monastery and news that came from within. Most of the monks had arrived there as boys, when a family had too many mouths to feed. In times of famine, donating a boy to the monastery could alleviate a family’s obligation to provide for their children. After the boys began their monastic studies, they rarely saw their families again.

Athelstan didn’t wonder what had become of his own family. Word travelled to the monastery when, months before Athelstan’s tenth birthday, he learned that his parents, brothers, and sister had succumbed to the plague. He barely remembered them.

When he was a child, Athelstan sometimes wondered what his life would have been like if he had a living family of his own. He tried not to dwell on it. He reminded himself that the brothers at the monastery were his family now and Almighty God was the only father he needed. He considered himself lucky to have been marked out to serve a life of devotion to God. He embraced his duty with all his heart.

The peat smouldered and Athelstan caught himself dallying in front of its heat. Taking the blanket, he walked to Ragnar’s bedside. The man still slept, seemingly unaware that he had been brought indoors and into the very monastery that he and his kinsmen had decimated a day earlier.

Athelstan spread the blanket over Ragnar. He watched as the Northman’s chest rose and fell. Relieved that Ragnar was still alive, Athelstan wondered if the day would come when Ragnar could remember from where he came and why he had travelled to Lindisfarne with the Northmen.

When Ragnar awoke… if he woke… the monks would have to do something to mend his broken bones and tend to the wounds he had suffered in the attack. Until then, Athelstan could wait. He drew up a chair from Father Cuthbert’s desk and sat beside the bed.

Soon, a gentle knock came on the door and Athelstan rose from his seat to answer it.

“I’ve brought some stew to warm you,” Matthew said. He carried the bowls into the room and set them on the desk.

“Thank you, Brother Matthew. Have you eaten already?”

Matthew did not take his eyes off Ragnar’s reclining form.

Athelstan thought it must be strange for Matthew to see Ragnar in Father Cuthbert’s place.

“Yes, I already had my fill from the kitchen,” Matthew said. “Brother Hedrick was kind enough to keep the pot simmering while we transported the Northman from the beach.”

“Please give him my thanks,” Athelstan said. He made the sign of the cross and prayed. “Thank you, God in heaven, for the food that I am about to receive. Amen.”

“I don’t suppose he will be well enough to eat anything soon,” Matthew said, nodding toward the bed where Ragnar lay.

Athelstan dipped his spoon into the stew and brought it to his lips. “I don’t think so,” Athelstan said. “I’m afraid he hasn’t regained consciousness since we found him on the beach.”

Athelstan sipped the broth from his spoon. Earlier in the day, he had helped Brother Hedrick divide the remaining food stores into rations that would last until their supplies came. He was grateful that there was enough meat and vegetables to make a stew, although they had to take care not to run out. Studded with carrots and potatoes, the warm stew was the first thing Athelstan had eaten in many hours and it warmed him from the inside.

“Were you able to learn anything from him?” Matthew asked.

Athelstan put his spoon down. “He seems to have lost his memory. He cannot remember why he came here, and he does not remember anything about the raid. I doubt he even knows what it means to be without the light of the Lord, Jesus Christ.”

“Poor soul,” Matthew said. “What will we do with him if he recovers? Send him on his way, back to the sea from whence he came? Or will we keep him here until the king’s men can dispense justice for all the harm he and his men have done to the monastery and to our brethren?”

“I’m not sure,” Athelstan said, resuming his meal. He truly did not know whether each of Matthew’s ideas would come to fruition. Perhaps there was a third way, a better way that would see that justice was served and that Ragnar’s soul was saved. He prayed that God would show him the way.

“And you do not fear him?” Matthew asked.

“I do fear for him,” Athelstan said. “I fear for his soul.”

Athelstan finished his broth and gave the bowl back to Matthew.

“I’ve brought some water for you to wash with,” Matthew said, “I left a pot outside the door.”

Matthew brought the pot of warm water inside the room and set it on the grate in the hearth to heat more thoroughly.

“Thank you,” Athelstan said, clasping Matthew’s shoulder as he walked to the door.

“And, I know you’ll be opposed to it, but I’ve brought you this, as well,” Matthew said. He reached into his habit and pulled out a knife. 

It was only a small knife, one they used in the kitchen for chopping herbs, but Athelstan was grateful for Matthew’s thoughts about protection. He glanced at Ragnar to ensure that he was still asleep.

“Thank you, Brother Matthew,” Athelstan said. “It shouldn’t be necessary, but I will keep it with me, along with your good thoughts.”

“Be safe,” Matthew said and bid Athelstan goodnight.

Athelstan closed the door behind Matthew. He considered carefully hiding the knife in his habit as Matthew had done, but he decided against it. Instead, he placed it out of Ragnar’s reach on the desk.

Athelstan went to the hearth and tested the water to make sure it had some heat before dipping a rag in. Removing his sandals from his feet, he poured some of the water into the basin that Father Cuthbert had kept for washing. There, Athelstan washed the day’s grime from his face and hands before sitting in the chair to tend to his feet.

He listened to Ragnar’s breathing that joined the chants of evensong wafting on the breeze through Father Cuthbert’s window. The tones of the prayer soothed Athelstan and brought him back into the light of God that seemed so easy to put aside after all that had transpired that day.

He placed the basin on the floor and sunk each foot into the warm water. Humming along to the evening prayers, Athelstan leaned over and dabbed at the dirt that accumulated between his toes. He liked feeling clean again, after spending so much time in the muck at the beach.

When he finished his ablutions, he considered the path before him. Athelstan knelt before the crucifix on the wall and silently prayed that he would understand the purpose that God intended for him. With weeks to pass before their supplies were replenished on the island, and no way to leave to get help earlier, the monks were truly isolated.

For the first time in his life, Athelstan appreciated the order that Father Cuthbert had kept in their small community. Of course, there were conflicts between the monks from time to time, but Father Cuthbert always managed the monks, young and old, with grace and wisdom. 

Even when Athelstan had gone into this very room when the skies were lit with lightning and the sea echoed with thunder, Father Cuthbert had managed Athelstan’s claims of it being _Judgement Day_ with authority. Athelstan regretted that he hadn’t appreciated the man more when he was alive.

Athelstan had never been an envious man, but he certainly never wanted to be in Father Cuthbert’s position. He silently hoped that another monk would come forward to fill the opening left by Father Cuthbert’s death. He would be happiest if he could get back to his scribe work, prayer, and healing the injured Northman.

He prayed for God to guide him and to forgive him any transgressions he may have committed by being doubtful of those who were in power or leadership. He prayed for wisdom—the wisdom of how to help Ragnar and wisdom of how to keep his brothers safe. He prayed for the wisdom to guide him through the days to come.

~

Ragnar awoke to the prodding of fingers on his scalp. The ache in his head was just as painful as it had been on the beach, only now he found himself beneath a musty blanket. He stretched out his legs and winced at the pain. The warm glow of the hearth danced before his eyelids. It took several moments for him to recognise that he was no longer on a battlefield or a beach.

Without moving, Ragnar took inventory of his injuries. His head ached. His shoulders ached. He was all but certain that his leg was broken. He opened his eyes.

“Well, look who’s awake again,” Athelstan said, pausing in his ministrations to Ragnar’s head.

Ragnar jerked away. He wanted to escape the confines of this room. He wanted to retreat from Athelstan and the enemies who would do him harm. Remembering that he had no axe or blade, he decided to rely on his wits.

“I am unarmed,” Ragnar said, raising his hands to indicate to Athelstan that they were empty.

“Of course you are,” Athelstan said, dropping his prodding hand to his side. “Surely you don’t think that I mean to harm you?”

Ragnar settled back down into the mattress.

“I am unsure,” Ragnar said, reluctantly communicating with Athelstan, despite his strange accent.

Athelstan frowned and dipped his rag into the basin of water that rested on the desk. “Can you remember where you are?” Athelstan asked.

“I see that I am not lying on a beach any longer,” Ragnar said.

“No,” Athelstan said. He tipped Ragnar’s head to the side and resumed his dabbing of the gash in Ragnar’s head.

Athelstan’s prodding felt like a child was beating Ragnar’s head with a tiny fist, something Ragnar remembered from a lifetime ago. A fair-haired boy child, perhaps the son of a kinsman used to do such a thing. But Athelstan was no young boy—not like the boy who Ragnar glimpsed somewhere behind his eyelids. That boy had vanished into the ether. Ragnar struggled to recover the memory of the boy, but he was gone.

“How did I get here?” Ragnar asked.

“We carried you,” Athelstan said. “Some of the monks fashioned a way to transport you over the beach, using some old sheets to make a litter.”

“I did not walk?” Ragnar asked. He grimaced, ashamed of his weakness when he learned that he had not walked the short distance between the beach and the monastery where he now lay. A warrior like him should have the strength of a god when he was injured—his injuries should have given him reason to rise to any challenge. 

“No,” Athelstan said. “You’re in no condition to walk. I’d like to examine your leg, if you will permit it.”

Ragnar eyed Athelstan warily. The gods would disapprove of his failure. He would never enter Valhalla if he did not regain his strength and win back his honour. He remembered that much.

“I’ve set bones before,” Athelstan explained. “Here at Lindisfarne, the monks have learned to be quite self-sufficient when one of us becomes injured. Help is several days away, so we must take care of ourselves when a situation arises.”

Ragnar could barely understand what Athelstan was telling him. Athelstan’s Norse was adequate for the most part, but Ragnar had difficulty making sense of some of the expressions that Athelstan used to communicate.

“It may hurt,” Athelstan continued.

Ragnar understood that.

“I’ll give you a stick to bite down upon, and I will pray over your body to ease your suffering before I touch you.”

Ragnar closed his eyes and stopped trying to understand what Athelstan was saying. He rested his head back on the pillow and planned his next move.

The peat fire had warmed Ragnar enough so that he could move his limbs again. He knew he had to fight for his honour, instead of lying disabled in the bed. Although he knew not how he got to Lindisfarne or what his intentions were with the monks there, he knew it was where he met this fate. He sullenly wondered why the gods had even bothered to keep him alive. It was a question he kept asking himself as the memories of his life before Lindisfarne swam through his mind like a salmon striving to swim upstream to spawn. He fought to ignore the pain in his head. He knew he needed to act. 

“I’ll just empty this basin and replace the warm water,” Athelstan said. He took the basin from the desk and took a step toward the hearth.

In a flash, Ragnar surged forward and was on him, the knife at Athelstan’s throat.

Athelstan dropped the basin onto the floor, the water splashing onto the stones and turning them dark.

Father Cuthbert’s room went quiet. The hearth fire cast its silent glow against the walls.

“Please… don’t kill me,” Athelstan gasped.

Ignoring the spike of pain in his leg, Ragnar tightened his grip on Athelstan. One hand grabbed the hair at the base of Athelstan’s neck, the other wielded the knife at his throat. The point threatened to draw blood.

“They’ll come,” Athelstan stuttered. “I will shout for help and my brothers will come. May God forgive them for killing you.”

Ragnar saw the fear in Athelstan’s eyes. 

Athelstan began to pray, “Pater in me pacem tuam da—”

Beneath Ragnar’s hand, Athelstan’s heart raced. The knife, as small as it was, glinted sharp against Athelstan’s throat. Ragnar could feel that Athelstan did not dare swallow lest Ragnar slice him open and watch the lifeblood drain from him, splattering onto the floor and mixing with the spilled water there.

“I was only trying to help you,” Athelstan whispered.

Although every fibre of Ragnar’s being told him to fight against Athelstan, he could not reconcile his actions with the kindness Athelstan had shown him.

Ragnar loosened his grip and the knife clattered to the floor.

Athelstan regained his feet.

Ragnar watched Athelstan’s chest heave as he caught his breath.

In an instant, Athelstan swept an arm to the ground and snatched the knife from where it fell.

“You mustn’t,” Athelstan said resolutely. “You mustn’t do anything like that again.”

“I know,” Ragnar agreed. His hand went to his side, where fresh pain nagged for his attention, despite the ache in his leg and the throbbing in his head. When his hand came away, his filthy fingers were smeared with blood. He looked at blood, resigned to succumb to the pain again.

“You’re injured worse than we thought you were,” Athelstan said simply.

Ragnar took a step backwards, taking the weight off his injured leg.

Athelstan tossed the knife toward the hearth. He crossed the room and took Ragnar by his upper arms, pushing him gently onto the bed.

“I do not know what I was thinking,” Ragnar said, watching Athelstan carefully for the retaliation that never came. 

“Don’t think anymore,” Athelstan said.

Ragnar let out a shuddering breath.

“I need to stop the bleeding,” Athelstan said. He placed a hand on Ragnar’s chest. “With your permission, we’re going to have to remove these rags.”

Ragnar nodded. “Rags?” This was once my best tunic,” he said.

Athelstan squinted at him as if he did not hear correctly. 

Alas, this was no time for Ragnar to display his sense of humour. Ragnar was relieved that Athelstan was still willing to help heal him after his aborted attack. He struggled to make his fingers cooperate as he and Athelstan worked to unknot the lacings of his tunic that had been tangled into a mess of blood and fabric and mud from Ragnar’s ordeal on the beach.

“I can use the knife to slice through these, if you promise to behave,” Athelstan said. He still had a twinge of fear in his voice, and for that, Ragnar was regretful.

Ragnar gazed up at him, one eye open wide while the other still fought against the swelling. “Go ahead,” he said.

Now, Athelstan seemed more cautious. He refrained from turning his back on Ragnar.

Ragnar could not blame him. He never should have succumbed to the rage that bubbled inside him. He never should have attacked Athelstan when he had been so willing to help him.

Athelstan went to the hearth and cautiously added more peat to the fire. He grabbed the knife from the stones where he had tossed it and returned to Ragnar’s side. His habit skimmed the floor beneath his bare feet.

Ragnar remained as still as possible while Athelstan sliced through the knots that held Ragnar’s tunic together. Ragnar watched Athelstan as he worked, his tongue trapped between his lips as he carefully cut the fabric away.

“There,” Athelstan said as he peeled back the fabric, inch by inch, from the wound.

The bloody wound stabbed with a sharp pain beneath Ragnar’s ribs. The exposure to the air made it ache anew. He fought to keep from pressing his hand into the mess to alleviate the pain. Instead, he patiently waited as Athelstan refilled the basin with warm water from the hearth and dipped a rag into it to begin his healing.

~

Athelstan searched the shelves in the monastery kitchen. He tossed aside the vials, after looking at each one in the torchlight. The herbs were next for him to scrutinize. Sage, fennel, thyme…. Perhaps he could make a poultice with the sticklewort when his task was through.

“What are you looking for?” Matthew appeared from the dormitory. Athelstan handed him the torch, so he could use both of his hands to search.

“Shhh! I need a needle and a length of silk,” Athelstan said, glancing toward the open dormitory door. “I know Brother Jasper kept some in here for emergencies.”

“Like if he had to stitch together the legs of a turkey while he roasted it with stuffing?” Matthew remarked with a yawn.

Athelstan looked at him curiously. “I am hungry, but no, that’s not what I was thinking at all.”

“Has your Northman’s skull opened up again?”

“No, he has a gash in his side, by his ribs,” Athelstan said. “I don’t know how we didn’t notice it before. And he’s not _my_ Northman.”

With one hand, Matthew rummaged through the pouches of seeds that lined the shelves. “You shouldn’t have left him alone. You could have called for me,” he said. “I would have brought what you’re looking for.”

“I know,” Athelstan said, meeting Matthew’s eyes. “I’m only leaving him alone for a moment.” He wasn’t sure whether he was trying to convince Matthew or himself that it was a wise decision to leave Ragnar unattended.

“Is this what you wanted?” Matthew asked. He tipped open a folded piece of parchment. A bone needle and spool of silk fell onto the shelf.

“Thanks, brother,” Athelstan said, snatching up the tools he needed to stitch Ragnar’s side together. He took the torch from Matthew.

Matthew tiptoed to the dormitory door and quietly closed it behind him.

“Aren’t you going back to sleep?” Athelstan whispered.

“No,” Matthew said. “I’m going with you. You’re going to need my help if you want to stitch the heathen.”

Athelstan shook his head. The last thing he needed was for Matthew to learn that Ragnar had held a knife to his throat. That would be the end of Athelstan’s hope to learn more about Ragnar’s ways and to guide him in the way of the Lord.

“You can’t,” Athelstan said. “What if our brothers awaken to find you gone? They’ll all come running down the hall, sure that we were both killed by Ragnar.”

“Who?”

“Ragnar,” Athelstan said. “That’s his name.” This was already going worse than Athelstan could have imagined.

“But what if _Ragnar_ won’t stay still while you stitch his wound?” Matthew asked, already heading toward Father Cuthbert’s old room. “What if he lashes out and attacks you?”

“He won’t attack me,” Athelstan said in a hush. He felt horrible because he knew it was a lie.

Athelstan’s years in the monastery taught him the importance of truth and honesty. He grabbed a decanter of wine from the kitchen and cast his eyes downward as he followed Matthew’s shadow down the darkened hallway.

For Athelstan, the whole trip down the hall to Father Cuthbert’s room was fraught with worry. He feared what would happen if Ragnar attacked Matthew. Or if Ragnar somehow communicated to Matthew that he had held a knife to Athelstan’s throat. That would not bode well for Athelstan’s promise to help restore Lindisfarne to order. In fact, it would likely get him kicked out of the monastery and doom him to begging on the streets of Newcastle.

Fortunately, Matthew had the foresight to stand aside and let Athelstan enter Father Cuthbert’s room first. It was a small relief for Athelstan to see that Ragnar was still there. He hadn’t tried to flee from the monks, nor had he fashioned a weapon to use against him or Matthew—at least not that Athelstan could see.

“Ragnar,” Athelstan said, “This is Matthew. You may remember him from when you were lying on the beach. He was with the group of monks who carried you back here.”

Athelstan knew his Norse was not very nuanced, but still he thought that he might get a _thank you_ out of Ragnar, but it was not to be. He supposed that heathens were not known for being well-mannered.

“Matthew,” Ragnar said, and then, with a gleam in his eye, “Brother.”

Apparently, Ragnar remembered the word Athelstan had taught him on the beach. He rolled his eyes before getting to work.

Matthew went to the head of the bed and examined what Athelstan had done to treat Ragnar’s scalp. “You’ve cleaned his head wound nicely,” he said.

Ragnar gazed at him, wild-eyed, as if he doubted the sincerity of his motives. His fists clenched as if they missed holding a weapon.

Athelstan spoke to Ragnar in his language. “We’re going to have to clean this wound before I try to stitch it closed. I have found that some wine will help with the pain.”

Ragnar obviously understood perfectly because he reached for the wine with eager hands.

“No, it’s not for drinking,” Athelstan said.

“Although it probably could only help,” Matthew said. “Go ahead, let him have some.”

Athelstan frowned at Matthew before handing the wine to Ragnar, who had raised himself up on one elbow to drink. If Matthew had known about Ragnar’s previous behaviour, he’d be less inclined to allow him to indulge.

He watched Ragnar take a few clumsy swallows.

“That’s enough,” Athelstan told Ragnar before catching Matthew’s attention, “He’s had nothing to eat since we found him—not even broth.”

Matthew took hold of the wine decanter after Ragnar had drunk his fill.

Athelstan hoped that the wine would provide him some relief from pain, as his stitching might prove to be an uncomfortable experience, at best.

“I’ll take that,” Athelstan said, taking the wine from Matthew, who looked like he could do with some wine himself, for being in the company of a heathen.

Matthew handed the wine back to Athelstan.

In his travels, Athelstan tried his best to bring healing to those who were afflicted. He spoke the word of the Lord to comfort those in need. In Ragnar’s case, Athelstan was truly grateful that things had gone well, so far, especially with Matthew in the room. He bowed his head and prayed that God would guide his hands to bring some healing to Ragnar.

“Merciful Father, who has created man in your own image, and has made his body to be a temple of the Holy Spirit, sanctify, we pray you, my hands and the hands of Brother Matthew. Strengthen Ragnar in body and soul, and bless our work that we may give comfort to him in the name of your son who lived on this earth, healed the sick, and suffered and died upon the cross. Amen.”

“Amen,” Matthew said, when Athelstan finished his prayer.

Ragnar said nothing, but he watched them with rapt attention.

Athelstan considered teaching Ragnar some English words, if he survived his stitching. It couldn’t hurt for Ragnar to learn a prayer or two—or a few words so he could communicate with the monks, should the need arise.

“Ragnar,” Athelstan stepped toward the head of the bed and met Ragnar’s eyes. “This may hurt deeply. If you need something to bite down upon to stifle your screams, we can find a stick or a piece of leather that’s suitable.”

Ragnar nodded to Athelstan and said, “I can manage it.”

Athelstan lifted the blanket that had been pulled up to Ragnar’s chest. Fresh blood had already seeped from the wound to stain Father Cuthbert’s sister’s handiwork. He drew the blanket down and watched to make sure the fabric didn’t stick to Ragnar’s wound.

Matthew went to the desk and took the thick leather bookmark from the prayer book that rested there.  
He stood by and watched, ready to help wherever he was needed.

Athelstan took a fresh rag and doused it in wine. He held the rag over Ragnar’s wound and squeezed until the wine dripped from the cloth.

Ragnar clenched his teeth.

“It’s all right,” Athelstan said. “Just a bit more.”

Although the incident when Ragnar wielded the knife had passed, Athelstan remained distrustful of him. Still, he sought to fulfil his duty as a man of God. Dipping the rag in the wine again, Athelstan performed the same motion, his lips praying all the while in the words that would surely be unfamiliar to Ragnar.

Matthew watched as the wine pooled on Ragnar’s skin.

Ragnar did not cry out in pain.

Athelstan admired his bravery and his strength at resisting the urge to flinch at Athelstan’s touch. Athelstan would surely recoil and writhe in agony if he was so grievously injured.

When Athelstan was satisfied that the wound had been sufficiently cleaned, he pressed a fresh rag atop the torn skin.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Athelstan asked, his hand applying pressure to Ragnar’s wound.

Ragnar let out a breath. “I have survived worse.”

Oh,” Athelstan remarked. “Are you remembering more about where you came from?”

Matthew looked from Athelstan to Ragnar and back again, as he could not comprehend the conversation between them.

“I remember being injured in battles,” Ragnar said thoughtfully. “But I know not why, or where.”

Athelstan could probably guess where Ragnar’s injuries lay. Now that he had seen Ragnar shirtless, he had witnessed a map of scars that marked the Northman’s body. Some looked like they had been caused by a blade. Still others looked like an arrow had once pierced his flesh. No matter what lands Ragnar had done battle on, he had suffered in the process.

Now, it was time to add another scar to Ragnar’s vast collection.

Athelstan took the spool and drew a length of silk from it.

Matthew took advantage of the pause in treatment. He busied himself with the peat fire while Athelstan took care to thread the needle with the silk.

“He’ll be glad he drank some wine before this part, I suspect,” Matthew said.

Athelstan nodded and said, “He’s been very brave and tolerant so far. I suspect he will be the same when he feels the needle’s pierce.”

Matthew returned to Ragnar’s side and stood ready with his piece of leather at Ragnar’s head.

Athelstan bit his lip and made the first pass of needle through the angry red skin that lined the wound. 

Ragnar’s muscles tensed at the intrusion. 

Athelstan drew the needle through and made a stitch.

Ragnar seemed to relax.

Athelstan glanced at Ragnar’s calm face and grew satisfied that he had judged his tolerance for pain correctly.

Athelstan worked to make a line of neat stitches across Ragnar’s skin below his ribcage.

Matthew watched Ragnar’s face for signs of distress, and finding none, he left the piece of leather on the desk.

Beads of sweat formed on Ragnar’s brow with each stitch that Athelstan took. Nearing the end of his ministrations, Athelstan spread his left hand on Ragnar’s chest so he could hold the skin in place while he made the final knots.

The room was silent, except for the crackle of the hearth that sputtered with sparks every once in a while.

Warmth rose from Ragnar’s skin, his heart beating just below the surface, like any other man who was created in God’s image. Northmen and Englishmen were not so different after all.

Athelstan found himself wishing Matthew wasn’t in the room with them. He trusted easily, but he knew that it was dangerous, after Ragnar had held the knife to his throat. In one sudden movement, Ragnar could spring into action and all Athelstan’s work, and all his trust, would have been for naught.

After Athelstan trimmed the last length of thread, Ragnar reached forward with a warm hand and clasped Athelstan’s wrist.

Athelstan’s breath caught in his throat.

“Thank you, priest,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan opened his mouth and, at a loss for words, closed it again, like a fish on the line. He could only struggle against the unseen force of Ragnar, whose blue eyes drew him closer, reeling him in, hand over hand, until Athelstan had no choice but to surrender.

“Athelstan?” Matthew called, shaking Athelstan from his moment of contemplation. “I’ll help you set his leg now.”

~


	3. Chapter 3

“Ragnar? Do you know where you are?”

Ragnar grumbled. He wished he could have a day of rest—just one day to lay about and not have to think about raids and fighting with Rollo and Lagertha and the children.

“Ragnar? Can you hear me?”

Ragnar pushed his dream aside and blinked his eyes open.

“Ragnar? Are you well?”

Blue eyes greeted him from beneath a mop of dark curls.

“Athelstan?” Ragnar asked, shaking himself awake.

“Ragnar?”

“I was having a dream.”

“You were shouting,” Athelstan said. “What were you dreaming about? Have you remembered something?”

The fire had diminished in the night and the room had the chill of early morning, but Ragnar was grateful the he did not awaken on the cold muddy beach again.

“I cannot remember,” Ragnar said, hoping that Athelstan would believe him.

“I’ve brought you some breakfast,” Athelstan said. “Brother Hedrick had a crock of butter hidden away in the kitchen. He made oatcakes.”

Ragnar pushed himself up on an elbow to see what Athelstan had wrapped in a square of cloth. The scent of oatcakes smeared with butter wafted through the room.

Athelstan sat on the edge of the bed and offered Ragnar a cake.

With grimy fingers, Ragnar accepted the morsel of food, the first thing he had to eat in days.

“I’ve brought some ale to wash it down,” Athelstan said. He went to the desk and poured the ale from a clay pitcher into a round wooden cup.

Ragnar chewed slowly, savouring the oatcake before taking a swig of ale.

“Thank you,” Ragnar said. “I am grateful to you and to Brother Hedrick.”

Athelstan turned to the hearth and sniffed. The fire had gone low in the night and the sharp scent of burned peat emanated from the fireplace.

“I should get that going again,” Athelstan said.

Ragnar became acutely aware of the stench that permeated his remaining clothing, his skin, his hair. What he wouldn’t give to swim naked in a deep fjord with the summer sun beating down on the valley. He shook away the memory of cold water and brilliant sunshine.

“I do not want you to trouble yourself further,” Ragnar said.

“It’s no trouble. I think I’ll heat some water today because… to be quite honest,” Athelstan said, wrinkling his nose. “You could do with a wash.”

“You, too, would need a bath if you spent a day crawling on the beach with no knowledge of where you were,” Ragnar said with a laugh. He hoped it was enough to convince Athelstan that some of his memory had not returned. Besides, it felt good to share laughter with Athelstan. Ragnar hoped it would dissipate any tension that remained between them from the previous evening.

“I’ve already washed,” Athelstan said. “Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and all.”

Ragnar shook his head and drank down his ale. He set the cup back on the desk.

“You can have more of those,” Athelstan said, indicating the oatcakes. “How does your leg feel this morning?”

Ragnar had nearly forgotten about the pain. He took another oatcake with one hand. With the other hand, he drew back the blanket that covered him to reveal Athelstan and Matthew’s work.

Using wide straps of leather, they had bound his lower leg to a pair of willow saplings to keep it stable. Although he couldn’t bend it, the leg was free from pain. Ragnar was sure that the leg would readily heal if he used it as little as possible while it mended.

“We might have some crutches from when Brother Thomas broke his leg. That was years ago, but I think I know where they are stored away,” Athelstan said.

“I would like to try,” Ragnar said, munching on another oatcake. “It would be a relief to get out of this bed.”

“Very well. Let me get this fire going and I’ll bring some water to heat for your washing,” Athelstan said. He went to the fire and blew on the peat. He coughed when the ashes scattered in a dusty cloud, revealing the glow beneath them.

Ragnar watched as Athelstan laid more peat onto the coals.

When Athelstan seemed satisfied with what he had done, he rose from where he knelt at the hearth. “Can I check your stitching?” he asked.

Ragnar popped the last bite of cake into his mouth and licked his dirty fingers. He didn’t say anything. He simply folded his hands behind his head and let Athelstan inspect the work he had done the night before.

Athelstan crossed the room and a rush of air gusted over Ragnar’s bare chest. Ragnar held his breath. The muscles of his abdomen bunched up against Athelstan’s cold fingers as they skimmed along the surface of his skin.

Athelstan bit his lip as he gingerly touched the sides of the ragged wound. Ragnar assumed he was testing to see if the injury caused Ragnar new pain, or if the wound was infected.

“This looks better already,” Athelstan said finally, pausing the movement of his fingers to catch Ragnar’s eyes.

Ragnar could swear that a blush rose to Athelstan’s cheeks. One side of his mouth threaten to curl into a smile. He supposed these monks never had occasion to touch a naked man before, least of all a battle-hardened warrior like himself.

And what was it that Rollo had said about there being no women at Lindisfarne? He was as surprised as Ragnar had been.

Ragnar pushed away the sound of Rollo’s voice and pretended it did not exist.

Athelstan cleared his throat and looked at the wound before pulling the blanket up to cover Ragnar’s torso. He went to the fire to check its progress before walking to the door.

“I’ll be back soon with the water,” Athelstan said from the doorway. He started to leave, but then appeared in the doorway again. “And I’ll find you some clothing to wear, while I’m gone.”

Ragnar thought for a moment and asked, “Are you going to dress me in a monk’s habit like you and Matthew wear?”

“I don’t think that will be appropriate,” Athelstan said. “But we do have some clothing that may be more to your liking. Mostly tunics and trousers that have been left behind by visitors to Lindisfarne. I’ll see what I can find for you.”

Ragnar nodded as Athelstan left. He lay back on the sheets made filthy by his own blood. He was grateful for all the attention Athelstan had given him, but he was worried about the people who would next visit the monastery and learn of the slaughter there.

Ragnar wished he could escape the island, but where would he go? He knew no one, except for the monks of Lindisfarne. He tried to remember the people of his past, the village where he once lived. He knew he had travelled from far across the sea to reach this strange island of men with their half-shaved heads and their long brown robes.

Deciding that he had no other choice, Ragnar trusted that Athelstan knew what he was doing. He let his head sink into the pillow. The calming tones of the monk’s morning prayers resonated down the hall and through the open door to Ragnar’s room.

Ragnar listened to the words. He thought he could hear Athelstan’s voice, distinct from the voices of the other monks. When the singing stopped, the monastery was silent again.

After a short while, Athelstan returned with a pail of warm water, a clean rag, and a lump of soap. He set the pail on the hearth to heat before turning to Ragnar and folding his hands in front of his waist.

Ragnar noticed that Athelstan’s hands were trembling. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

Athelstan took a breath and looked away.

“What is it?” Ragnar asked.

Athelstan walked forward toward the bed. “It’s probably unwise of me to be in the room alone with you,” he said.

Ragnar pursed his lips. He wondered why Athelstan was now reluctant to spend time alone with him.

“Did one of your brothers caution against it?” Ragnar asked.

“No,” Athelstan said, too quickly for Ragnar’s suspicion to be unfounded.

“If you wish, you can ask Brother Matthew to join you,” Ragnar said. “He seemed to have adequate knowledge of how to care for an injured man.”

“No, I don’t want to bother him,” Athelstan said, resolutely. “Besides, there is so much work to be done around the monastery. We really shouldn’t take him from his other tasks.”

“I see,” Ragnar said. He watched Athelstan as he kept his distance with his back to the fire and his eyes on Ragnar.

Athelstan’s lips moved in silent prayer.

“What is it then?” Ragnar asked, when Athelstan finished. “Why do you now act like a mouse who is about to be caught by a stealthy cat?”

“It’s nothing,” Athelstan said, taking a deep breath that seemed to help him regain his composure.

“Are you afraid I will attack you?” Ragnar asked. He was certain that this had to be the reason for Athelstan’s behaviour. One of the other monks had probably put the idea into Athelstan’s head when he went to get the water. Ragnar knew he behaved badly the day before. It would not surprise him if Athelstan thought that he might harm him again. Ragnar couldn’t really blame him. A man of Ragnar’s size and skill could easily overpower an inexperienced monk. And Ragnar had proven this only yesterday.

“No,” Athelstan said. As if to demonstrate that he was not afraid, he turned to the hearth and tested the temperature of the water. Apparently satisfied that it was hot enough, he carried the pail to the desk beside the bed.

“I know what it is,” Ragnar said, with a gleam in his eye.

Athelstan looked up in surprise as though he had been caught thinking whatever dangerous thoughts had been crossing his mind.

“It is the smell,” Ragnar said. “I smell like fish that has been rotting on the dock for a week in the sun.”

To Ragnar’s delight, Athelstan smiled.

“Yes, that’s it, exactly,” Athelstan said with relief. He walked closer and sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m afraid I will pass out because of your stink.”

“You should go ahead and call Matthew then,” Ragnar said gently. “You should not have to suffer alone.”

Although Ragnar suggested that Athelstan ask for Matthew’s assistance, he truly would have been disappointed if Athelstan took the suggestion. Matthew was kind, but he could not understand Ragnar and Athelstan’s conversation. Nor could Ragnar understand the words that swiftly passed between Matthew and Athelstan. Although Athelstan had taught Ragnar a few English words, Ragnar preferred to have Athelstan to himself.

“I don’t need to,” Athelstan said. “I can take care of you, myself.”

Athelstan filled the basin with hot water and set it on the bed beside Ragnar.

“Let’s begin with your hands,” Athelstan said. He took Ragnar’s left hand and set it inside the basin where it could soak.

The water brought warmth to Ragnar’s hand. He stretched his fingers out and then clenched a fist again. It felt good to soak. He only wished that Athelstan had brought two basins, so he could soak his right hand simultaneously with his left.

Athelstan dipped a clean rag into the pail of water and went to the head of the bed.

“Your hair is a knotted mess,” Athelstan said.

Ragnar agreed. It had been months since he had freed his hair from the braids that hugged his scalp. He tried to remember who had helped him with it, but the name of the woman escaped him.

“It will take a long time to undo,” Athelstan said. “Perhaps we’ll leave it for another day.”

“How does my head look today?” Ragnar asked. 

Athelstan’s fingers went to his scalp, where they prodded at the wound again.

“Better than yesterday,” Athelstan said. “You’ve got an enormous bruise around the gash, but the cut seems to have held together since I cleaned it.”

“It does ache still,” Ragnar said, “especially when you can’t keep your fingers away from it.”

“Sorry,” Athelstan said, before wiping at his scalp with the warm wet rag.

“That feels better,” Ragnar said. He could imagine Athelstan’s fingers as they worked behind his head to wash the filth from his skin.

Athelstan rinsed the rag, over and over again, as he tended to Ragnar’s head. 

When Athelstan finished with Ragnar’s skull, he swiped the wet cloth down his braids several times, each time adding more liquid to his efforts.

“Satisfied?” Ragnar asked when Athelstan finally wrapped Ragnar’s hair in a clean cloth that would absorb the liquid.

“Mmmm…” Athelstan hummed. “Hold still while I wash your face.”

Ragnar took a breath before Athelstan spread the warm wet cloth over his face. He took a moment to languish in the feeling of his skin being cleaned.

Athelstan scrubbed with gentle fingers, rubbing with the right amount of pressure to wash off the dirt and grime that had accumulated in battle and on the beach.

Ragnar inhaled the scent of the lightly soaped cloth. He felt like a slave girl who was being prepared to join her master in Valhalla. His cock began to grow hard with the thought of Athelstan preparing him.

“I plan to change the bedding as soon as I’m done with you,” Athelstan said.

“I can try to stand,” Ragnar said quickly, hoping that Athelstan would not notice the effect that his daydreaming had on his body. 

“I don’t want you to injure yourself further,” Athelstan said.

“Not to worry,” Ragnar said. “I can hop about on one foot if necessary.”

That earned Ragnar a smile from Athelstan, who was altogether too serious about this bathing task.

“Let’s see your hand now,” Athelstan said.

Ragnar raised his left hand from the water.

Athelstan took Ragnar’s hand. He washed the dirt from his skin and dug what he could from beneath his fingernails before refilling the basin with hot water. He went to the opposite side of the bed and set the basin down on the mattress. Taking Ragnar’s right hand, he plunged it into the soothing water.

“There’s a lot of you to clean,” Athelstan said, taking a warm rag and laying it across Ragnar’s right shoulder. He pressed the heat from the cloth into the grimy skin there.

“I can help,” Ragnar said. He raised his left hand, clean from Athelstan’s ministrations, and clasped Athelstan’s hand in his own.

Athelstan pulled his hand out of Ragnar’s grasp, a blush coming to his cheeks.

“What is it?” Ragnar asked, turning his head so he met Athelstan’s gaze.

“It’s nothing,” Athelstan said, but Ragnar knew better.

Athelstan drew in a breath and proceeded to wash the dirt from Ragnar’s shoulder. His fingers danced over a long scar on his bicep from a forgotten battle of the past.

“Go ahead,” Ragnar said. “Speak your mind.”

“It’s just… where you come from…” Athelstan stammered as he continued his cleaning, “are all men shaped in the same manner as you are?”

Ragnar thought for a moment. “I think they must be,” he said. “If my people desecrated the monastery and wielded axes against the monks, they must have trained to fight, or perhaps they even competed against one another in battle. Are we so different from other men?”

Athelstan rinsed his rag and walked to the opposite side of the bed. He spoke as he began to wash Ragnar’s other shoulder, taking care to not stretch the skin so taut that it disturbed the stitches beneath his ribs.

“It’s just that I’ve never seen a man with such muscles in his arms,” Athelstan said, his cheeks threatening to turn red. “You must be very strong.”

“Perhaps we will learn someday, just how strong I can be,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan hummed in agreement. “If you can sit up, I will wash your back,” he said.

“It would be my pleasure to do so,” Ragnar said.

Ragnar used his clean left hand to prop himself up so Athelstan could work behind him. The soothing heat of the wash rag and the steady pressure from Athelstan’s hands made Ragnar’s muscles relax. Ragnar fought to contain a soft moan while Athelstan worked to wash his back from his shoulders to the waistband of his tattered trousers. He sighed when Athelstan, finally satisfied that his job was complete, took the pail of water back to the hearth to heat.

“Tell me, do you often tend strangers to your island in this way?” Ragnar asked.

“No,” Athelstan said. “As you can probably tell, I’m rather uncomfortable with this, although it does need to be done.”

“Why does it make you uncomfortable?” Ragnar asked.

Athelstan hesitated for a long moment, but Ragnar did not push.

Finally, Athelstan spoke, “Pious reflection is my way of life, as it has been, for as long as I can remember. It’s strange for me to be in such close physical contact with another person.”

“What do you mean?” Ragnar asked.

“I am not accustomed to seeing nakedness,” Athelstan struggled. “It’s improper.”

“Surely you and the monks….” Ragnar did not know how to verbalize what he was asking. It simply seemed like, with no women around, the monks would use each other to satisfy their physical needs.

Athelstan’s eyes flew open and he looked worried. “No, no, of course not,” he said. “That would be sinful.”

“Sinful?” Ragnar asked. “What is this _sinful?_

“It would be against God’s wishes,” Athelstan said. “I have taken a vow of celibacy. I can touch no woman. I never have.”

Ragnar thought this was amusing. “I said nothing of a woman. What about touching a man? There seems to be no shortage of young men here.”

If Athelstan looked shocked a moment ago, the look on his face now was one of absolute terror.

“No, a thousand times no. Why would you ask such a thing?”

As if Athelstan didn’t already think Ragnar was a wanton heathen, now he had diminished himself even further in Athelstan’s eyes. He should have said nothing, but he could not have imagined that Athelstan engaged in this form of deprivation.

“This is an amusing practice, this vow you have taken,” Ragnar said. “Does your God not wish for you to be happy?”

“I seek my joy only in the Lord,” Athelstan said, licking his lips. “That is enough for me.”

With that said, Athelstan went to the hearth to retrieve the pail of hot water. He brought it to Ragnar’s bedside, but he avoided Ragnar’s eyes. Instead, he perfunctorily washed Ragnar’s right hand before moving on to wash his chest quickly. He took a moment to examine the gash that he had stitched by Ragnar’s ribs. Apparently satisfied that it didn’t need further treatment, Athelstan handed Ragnar the wash rag.

“You can take care of the rest,” Athelstan said.

Ragnar looked at him with questioning eyes, trying to see through him to uncover his true motivations.

“I need to go to the kitchen to find fresh bedding for you,” Athelstan said. He straightened himself from where he had stood by the bed and walked to the door. “I’ll look for those crutches while I’m there.”

~

Athelstan hurried toward the kitchen. For once, he was happy that his billowing monk’s habit covered the burgeoning sin between his legs. Despite being covered, he understood that nothing could hide his sinful thoughts from God. He ducked into the small chapel before he reached the kitchen.

Although the golden cross that once served as the focal point for the monk’s prayers was now well on its way with the Northmen, Athelstan knelt before the bare altar.

The ornamental candleholders that once decorated the chapel were gone, but the monks had found some simple candles that they lit and set upon a few spare dishes. They brought light into the chilly room that was the scene of the massacre. The Gospel of Saint John, that Athelstan had smuggled away when the Northmen raided the monastery, lay open on the stand from which Father Cuthbert would lead their prayers.

Athelstan was grateful that the bodies had been buried and the walls had been scrubbed of blood. He spared a thought for the dead, but he had more pressing issues on his mind. He made the sign of the cross and began to pray.

“Heavenly Father, forgive me my sins,” Athelstan whispered. “Purge these sinful thoughts and show me your way that I may be pure in thought and in deed. I beg of you—”

The door to the chapel opened. Athelstan didn’t turn his head, but he no longer dared to whisper his prayer aloud.

A hand clasped his shoulder and for an instant he almost thought it was Ragnar, risen from his sickbed to taunt him with his body that inspired Athelstan’s most sinful thoughts. He stifled a yelp of relief when he realized it was only Brother Matthew, coming to visit the chapel, as Athelstan had.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you, Brother Athelstan,” Matthew apologised.

“It’s no worry, Matthew,” Athelstan said, a wave of relief washing over him.

“Look what I’ve brought,” Matthew said.

Only then did Athelstan dare look at Matthew, although he was certain that the mark of his sinful thoughts was plainly visible on his face.

“It’s beautiful,” Athelstan said.

Matthew had obviously spent the better part of the morning carving a cross from a piece of driftwood. Although the wood hadn’t the value of gold, it had been crafted with Matthew’s love for the Lord.

“I can’t decide whether to make a stand to hold it, or whether we should mount it on the wall,” Matthew said.

“It would look lovely on the wall,” Athelstan said. He was grateful that Matthew’s conversation steered Athelstan’s passion in a different direction. “I can help you with it.”

Athelstan rose from where he knelt. He followed Matthew to the wall behind the altar. He was sorry to learn that one of the heathens had taken an axe to the carved image of Jesus that had once decorated the chapel. Matthew’s replacement would be a suitable focal point for the monk’s prayers.

Matthew found a small ladder in the storage room behind the altar. He dragged it into place and climbed up the three steps. On the wall, the hanger that once held the old carving was still intact. He tested it by tugging on it gently.

“I think this will work,” Matthew said.

“And your cross looks like it will cover some of the gash marks made by the heathen’s axes,” Athelstan said.

In the aftermath of the raid, the monks barely had time to put out the fires and bury the bodies. Repairing the walls of the monastery would have to wait. The damage would serve as a stark reminder of the violence in the world that had invaded their peaceful community.

“How does this look?” Matthew asked from his perch.

“You need to tilt it a little to the left,” Athelstan said.

Matthew made some adjustments.

“Perfect,” Athelstan said. And he crossed himself again in front of Matthew’s work. Now the monks would have a cross to gaze at, instead of the ugly marks made by the heathen’s weapons.

Matthew had just descended from the ladder when Brother Finian entered the chapel.

“Brother Athelstan, good to see you helping Brother Matthew this morning,” Finian said. “You slipped away right after morning prayers.”

“Yes,” Athelstan said, and because there was no point in hiding what he was doing, he added, “I was checking on our visitor.” He regretted that he was compelled to remind Finian that the heathen was given refuge at the monastery. There was no telling how distasteful Brother Finian found the idea of sheltering Ragnar, the associate of the Northmen who had pillaged the monastery.

“That looks wonderful, Brother Matthew,” Finian said, indicating the cross. He then turned his attention to Athelstan, “and how is your Northman this morning?” he asked.

“He’s not _my_ Northman,” Athelstan said.

“His lower leg is broken,” Matthew supplied. “We were able to set it right yesterday.”

Finian gave Matthew a cautious look. “And I suppose it is taking both of you to look after him?”

“I was only helping Brother Athelstan for a short while. Ragnar’s condition seemed much improved from when we found him on the beach.”

“Ragnar?” Finian asked.

Athelstan couldn’t say why he felt angry at the sound of Ragnar’s name on Finian’s lips.

“That’s the Northman’s name,” Matthew said.

“Don’t get too attached to him, either of you,” Finian cautioned. “When word reaches Newcastle, he’ll be taken away in chains.”

Matthew scoffed at that.

“That would be an outrageous cruelty,” Athelstan said. “You can’t mean to have the man punished for something that he may have had no part in.”

“He took part in the raid. There is no question about that,” Finian said.

“But he has no memory of the event,” Matthew interjected. “You can’t blame him for the actions of all Northmen. And he can’t confess to have done something that he can’t remember.”

Athelstan’s blood boiled. He was grateful that Matthew stood up for Ragnar. He had enough of Finian’s attitude, ever since the raid. It would not have surprised Athelstan if Finian had plans to appoint himself the leader of the monastery. Athelstan knew it was Christ’s way to love thy neighbour, but he truly didn’t like Finian one bit.

“This man was part of the heathen raid. His people killed Father Cuthbert,” Finian insisted.

“Since this man has no memory of the attack. We should treat him as we would any other wanderer who visits Lindisfarne,” Athelstan said. “Would we treat a missionary from another land in this way?”

“But his people killed ours,” Finian said.

“No one saw him kill anyone,” Athelstan said with confidence. 

“And he hasn’t done anything heathen-like since Brother Athelstan has been tending to him,” Matthew said. “Has he?”

“No,” Athelstan said. He hated that he felt compelled to lie on Ragnar’s behalf.

“Sending him to his death for something that can’t be proven and something he doesn’t remember doing—so much for turning the other cheek,” Matthew said, throwing his hands in the air.

“Look, Brother Finian,” Athelstan said, raising his palms to placate him. “To send Ragnar away for this crime would be cruel. This is a place of worship. We must try to bring the word of God to the heathens, starting with Ragnar.”

As much as Athelstan desired to keep his motives to himself, the thought of Ragnar being led away to his certain death was unbearable. He may as well try to get the other monks on board with his plan to teach Ragnar their ways. It was what God called Athelstan to do. He was sure of it. Why else would God have put the half-drowned Northman in his path?

“There’s an idea,” Matthew said.

Athelstan said a silent prayer that Brother Finian would come around. He walked over to him and clasped his shoulder.

“What if we include Ragnar when we worship here?” Athelstan asked. “If he sees that we mean only to serve the Lord and spread the word of his sacrifice to others, perhaps Ragnar will bring the word of God to his people?”

“If he ever gets his memory back and can remember the people to whom he belongs,” Matthew added.

“This sounds like a terrible idea,” Brother Finian said. “You do realize that these heathens slaughtered nearly every monk who crossed their path? Our brothers, our friends, all dead and gone.”

“I know,” Athelstan said. “But Ragnar deserves a chance. Should he be permitted to learn the way of the Lord, who forgives all sins when one accepts him into their heart?”

Brother Finian muttered to himself for a moment. “Very well, Brother Athelstan,” he said. “You know that you’re going to do whatever you damn well please anyway.”

“I’m sure you won’t regret this, Brother Finian,” Athelstan said sighing with relief.

“Tell that to the monks who had to clean up the carnage that the heathens left behind,” Finian said. He nodded once to Matthew and turned to face the newly-hung cross.

Matthew looked at Athelstan and smiled.

Finian crossed himself, scowled at Athelstan, and left the chapel.

Athelstan scratched the curly hair behind his ear and tried to get the look of glee off his face.

Matthew shook his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.

“I hope so too,” Athelstan said. He waited a moment, went to the door, and peered outside. Brother Finian’s footsteps echoed off the walls as he walked toward the monk’s dormitory.

“That went well,” Matthew said, sarcastically. He stepped back and admired the cross. “I didn’t expect to see you in the chapel. What were you doing in here?”

“Oh,” Athelstan said, remembering he had set out to find a few things for Ragnar before he had the sudden need to pray away some of the sinful thoughts that had taken hold of him. Those thoughts had blessedly vanished after a small amount of prayer and an argument with Brother Finian. “I was looking for those crutches we had from when Brother Thomas broke his leg.”

“Brother Thomas… was he the monk who left the monastery to become one of King Aelle’s guards?” Matthew asked.

“That’s the one,” Athelstan said. At least one monk had the physical strength needed, along with the desire to learn how to fight, to defend his king. Athelstan had marvelled at Brother Thomas when he scaled the wall of the monastery, with only the raging sea beneath him to catch his fall. He was braver than most monks. It was by pure accident that he broke his leg while pushing Brother Lucian out of the way of a charging boar. He insisted on walking all the way back from the wood to the monastery on his broken leg. It did not surprise Athelstan to hear of his decision to leave the monastery to answer a different calling- that of a soldier in the king’s guard.

“I think they’re stored away in the kitchen,” Matthew said.

“Ah, yes, that’s right,” Athelstan said. “I knew I had seen them somewhere. I am heading there now to look for them.”

“I can join you, now that my carving has been hung,” Matthew said, following Athelstan out the door. “Brother Hedrick has me on kitchen duty today, anyway.”

“And Ragnar will need some clothing, too,” Athelstan said, as they walked.

“I was going to suggest that,” Matthew agreed. “His trousers were hanging onto him by a thread. And his tunic wasn’t fit to use for a rag.”

“Thank you for standing up for him,” Athelstan said, stopping in the hallway outside the kitchen. “I really appreciate it.”

“I was only doing what was right,” Matthew said.

“I couldn’t bear it, if after the work we’ve done to bring Ragnar back from the brink of death, Brother Finian still wanted him to be killed.”

“He’s suffered much in his life as a Northman,” Matthew said. “Did you see the scars that covered him?”

Indeed, Athelstan had seen the scars that travelled across Ragnar’s skin like a map of Northumbria. “I shudder to think of the ordeals he has seen,” Athelstan said.

“It would be best for him to spend some time here with the monks,” Matthew said. “Do you think he can learn our language?”

“I don’t see why not,” Athelstan said. “After all, I have learned his language. Many monks learn the language of Francia and even the language of the Slavs. There’s no reason why a Northman can’t learn to communicate in a language other than his own.”

In the kitchen, Brother Matthew went to work, chopping vegetables as Brother Hedrick demanded. 

Athelstan rummaged through the tall cupboard where the medical supplies were kept. The cupboard contained mostly an assortment of rags, a couple of bone saws, knives, and clysters. Buried in the back of the cupboard, Athelstan found what he was looking for. He pulled the crutches out, knocking some of the other tools to the stone floor in the process.

“You found them?” Matthew asked, looking up from the carrots that he had been slicing into large chunks.

“Yes, thanks for your help,” Athelstan said, standing with his find.

“Now, get out of my kitchen before I put you to work too,” Brother Hedrick said, a spoon in his hand.

Athelstan laughed. He knew enough to stay out of Brother Hedrick’s way. He closed the kitchen door behind him and made his way to the small room beside the monk’s dormitory.

The scent of burnt wood was thick here. He passed Brother Sebastian and Brother Roderick as they worked together to repair the wall that was damaged by the fire. It was fortunate that the heathens set fire to a wall that was closest to the kitchen, where the cisterns were located. The remaining monks who were fit enough to carry the buckets of water to the flames had extinguished the fire before it could do more damage.

Although the physical damage to Lindisfarne could be repaired with time and effort, the emotional marks left on the monks would take longer to heal. Athelstan hoped that he wasn’t making a big mistake by trying to bring Ragnar to witness the power of the Lord, Jesus Christ. He sifted through the clothing that hung in the small storeroom.

A pair of dark brown trousers caught his eye. The legs seemed long enough to fit Ragnar, although they would need to cut the lower part of one leg off to accommodate his makeshift brace. They looked to be about the right size to fit Ragnar’s narrow waist.

Athelstan held up a tunic that promised to be Ragnar’s size. Much of the clothing had been moth eaten, but, apparently, the moths did not have a taste for the blue dye that was used on this particular shirt that had been left behind by a tradesman who once worked on the monastery roof. Athelstan told himself that his selection had nothing to do with the colour of Ragnar’s eyes.

~


	4. Chapter 4

Ragnar finished washing himself and left the dirty rag in the basin. He hoped that Athelstan would return soon. He worried about the monk’s strange behaviour. Of course, Ragnar attributed it to something he had said, or done, that made Athelstan act peculiar. Perhaps the words of his language translated into something inappropriate for the monk to hear. As it stood, Ragnar could only fully understand every other word that Athelstan spoke. One thing was clear, however—the man had taken a vow of celibacy. No matter that Ragnar could not remember where he came from or what his life was like before he found himself washed up on a beach at Lindisfarne, he would never understand the need for such deprivation as Athelstan had explained it to him.

Ragnar spent far too long of a time alone with his thoughts. He was grateful when the sound of Athelstan’s sandaled feet approached the doorway.

Athelstan carried a heap of clothing with him. A pair of wooden crutches dangled from the crook of one elbow. He struggled his way through the door.

“I would help you with that, if I could,” Ragnar said, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better look at what Athelstan carried.

“I see you got your washing done,” Athelstan said.

“I did the best I could,” Ragnar said. “I feel much cleaner now.”

Athelstan wrinkled his nose as he entered Father Cuthbert’s room. “You smell a fair bit better too.”

“I’m glad for that,” Ragnar said.

“I’ve brought clean clothing,” Athelstan said. He took a cursory glance at the basin of dirty water on the desk and shoved it aside so he could deposit the clothes there. Drops of dirty water splashed over the edge of the basin and stained the wood dark.

Upon closer inspection, Ragnar noticed that the pile Athelstan carried was not entirely made up of clothing. He had brought clean sheets and a clean blanket for the bed. Ragnar suspected that the sheets that he now lay upon were ruined for all time with their blood and muck from the seaside that had clung to Ragnar’s legs.

“And here are the crutches,” Athelstan said, holding the devices out to Ragnar.

Ragnar was eager to try to get out of the bed. He sat up straight and pushed Father Cuthbert’s blanket off.

“Whoa, wait a moment,” Athelstan shouted, his cheeks flushing red. “We need to get some clothing on you first.”

Ragnar thought Athelstan’s reaction was amusing. One would think that Athelstan had never seen a naked man before, despite him living with all the monks at the monastery. He ignored Athelstan’s admonishment and leaned back, his nakedness on full display.

Athelstan rested the crutches against the desk. “I’ve brought you a tunic and some trousers,” he said. He found them in the pile and held the garments in front of him. Of course, they blocked his view.

Ragnar sat up straight, but Athelstan looked directly into Ragnar’s eyes. While Ragnar spoke, Athelstan never took his eyes off him, undoubtedly trying to avoid being a witness to his nudity.

“Thank you,” Ragnar said, taking the tunic from Athelstan’s hands.

Ragnar turned the garment this way and that. It seemed like weeks had passed since he had donned clothing. He stared at the garment in confusion for what must have seemed like a very long time to Athelstan.

“Let me help you with that,” Athelstan said, dropping the trousers on the heap of bedding.

“I can do it,” Ragnar said, flipping the tunic over so he could find the opening to pull over his head. After some dithering, he shoved his head through the opening, thinking he must look like a fool to Athelstan.

“Be mindful of your stitches,” Athelstan said quietly.

Ragnar grumbled.

Athelstan leaned forward against the bed and found an armhole for Ragnar to push his hand through. “Careful,” Athelstan said, as both of the men shoved and pulled at the fabric.

If anyone were to walk into the room now, Ragnar thought the sight of them would have been startling. He winced at the stab of pain from the stitches that ran across his abdomen.

Finally, Ragnar tugged the bottom hem of the tunic to his waist.

Athelstan moved to reach behind Ragnar. With his tongue between his lips, he pulled Ragnar’s braid from where it was trapped between his back and the tunic.

“There you go,” Athelstan said fondly. He stepped backwards and looked toward the hearth, averting his eyes from Ragnar’s lower half.

Ragnar smiled, feeling warmer for having his naked skin covered. It was a fine tunic and he felt less like an invalid now that he wore some clothing.

“I’ve brought these too,” Athelstan said with a nod. He grabbed the trousers from the pile of bedding. “It may take a bit of work to get them on.”

“Let me have them,” Ragnar said, reaching for the pair of heavy trousers.

“I can call for Matthew to help with them,” Athelstan said.

“I forbid it,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan looked at him curiously.

“You’re hardly in any position to forbid anything,” Athelstan said.

The room was uncomfortably silent.

After a few moments, Ragnar looked at Athelstan and grinned. “I suppose you are right,” he said.

For the life of him, Ragnar could not explain why he would have said such a thing, forbidding Athelstan from doing anything in what was, for the lack of a better word, his home.

Athelstan went to the fire and coaxed the heat from the peat.

Ragnar lifted the trousers in front of his face and tried to distinguish the front from the back.

“You’re remembering, aren’t you?” Athelstan said from the hearth. “You’re remember who you were before you arrived here. You remember the kind of person you were.”

Ragnar fussed with a trouser leg, getting one foot shoved into the correct opening.

“Perhaps I am,” Ragnar said. “I did not intend to be so….”

“Surly,” Athelstan supplied, in English, with a turn of his head.

“Rude,” Ragnar stated in Norse. He watched Athelstan’s face to ensure that he understood the apology.

Athelstan turned back to the fire.

“If you help me, I think I can get my splinted leg into these trousers.”

That got Athelstan’s attention. He walked back to the bed, where Ragnar had taken care to cover his nakedness with the filthy blanket.

“Here,” he said, “Just hold the trouser leg open and I can—”

Ragnar grunted and groaned, as he undulated on the bed. His leg began to ache again. The squirming around did not do any favours to his stitched flesh. When all was said and done, he wore a pair of trousers, his splinted leg stretching the fabric of the trouser leg tightly.

“I’m exhausted just from helping you,” Athelstan said brightly. He looked happy that Ragnar was clothed. He tugged the soiled blanket away and threw it into a heap on the floor.

“Now that I am warm, I could fall asleep again,” Ragnar said. He flopped backward and cringed when his gashed head hit the pillow.

“Watch it there,” Athelstan said. He went to the head of the bed and inspected Ragnar’s scalp. “You’re lucky you didn’t split it open again. He stepped back and stood at the bedside with his arms folded across his chest.

Ragnar closed his eyes and adjusted to the fresh pain he had inflicted on his scalp. When he opened his eyes again, Athelstan was still staring at him, as if he had some news.

“Now that you’re clothed, I wanted to ask if you will dine with us this afternoon,” Athelstan said.

“With who?” Ragnar asked. “You and Matthew?”

Athelstan lowered his eyes. “With all of the monks that remain here. Brother Hedrick is making some kind of stew. I know that carrots are involved and I know it’s been a long time since you have eaten anything of substance,” he said.

Ragnar had to think long about what Athelstan had asked of him. Athelstan was kind, but he was unsure about the other monks. Ragnar suspected that there were monks who did not think of him the same way as Athelstan and Matthew did. It would not bode well for Ragnar if Athelstan learned that he felt like he had to defend himself against the monks. It was his way. Fighting was as inherent as the blue of his eyes or the warrior beat of his heart.

Athelstan sat on the edge of the small bed, waiting for Ragnar to answer.

“I don’t mind spending time with you and Matthew,” Ragnar said. “But all the brothers do not view me as you do. There are those who do not want me here.”

Athelstan clasped the wooden cross that he wore on his belt. He toyed with the tiny carving while he spoke. “Brother Finian is having a difficult time with your presence here. My soul grieves with him. He lost many friends in the raid on the monastery,” Athelstan said.

“He will always hate me,” Ragnar said, looking away. “Perhaps he is waiting for me to recover my health so he may take revenge on me.”

Athelstan closed his eyes and shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way here. We are a community of monks who only engage in piety at the monastery. We bring the word of God to others when we travel. We do not seek revenge on those who wrong us. Instead, we offer them forgiveness through our love of our Lord, Jesus Christ. We know no other way.”

Ragnar scoffed at him. The ways of these monks seemed ludicrous to Ragnar.

“I see that you remember the ways of your people—more than you did when you were lying helpless on the beach,” Athelstan said warily.

Ragnar decided he needed to stop talking, lest he divulge more information to Athelstan than he wished. It was best for Ragnar to keep the scraps of memories that had returned to himself. After all, at least it seemed like Athelstan didn’t want to kill him.

“It’s only been a couple of days since Brother Finian’s friends met their death. You need to give him time,” Athelstan said, laying a hand on Ragnar’s shoulder.

Ragnar tilted his head toward Athelstan’s hand, but as soon as he did, the hand was gone and Athelstan was on his feet.

“Let’s see if we can get you out of this bed,” Athelstan said, challenging the tension that had filled the room. He reached for the crutches that he had rested against the desk.

Ragnar slowly swung his legs over the edge of the bed. With Athelstan’s help holding the crutches steady, Ragnar positioned them beneath his armpits. Stepping down onto his good leg, Ragnar’s foot met the floor.

“This feels better already,” Ragnar said. He hopped onto one foot and tested the crutches. “I ought to be able to get around with these.”

Athelstan nodded and let go of the crutches. He took a step backwards.

Ragnar found that he could balance himself easily on both crutches and his healthy leg. He bent the knee of his damaged leg to keep his foot from striking the floor.

While Ragnar tested his balance, Athelstan moved behind him to strip the dirty bedding from the mattress. He threw it all onto the floor with the filthy blanket.

Ragnar pitied the monk whose job it would be to clean the disgusting mess. He doubted if the bloodstains could ever be washed away. He wavered back and forth on his feet, but he attributed the light-headedness to the rush of blood that left his head when he stood. In the distance, the sounds of battle echoed through his ears. _The clash of shields, the screams of the dying. The blood._

“Are you ready to try to walk a bit?” Athelstan asked, startling Ragnar.

Ragnar straightened up. He put his attention on the crutches. He lurched forward, putting his uninjured foot down to catch his weight. With Athelstan guiding him, he left the room. Slowly, he ventured out into the hall that he had never seen before. He felt secure on one foot and the crutches. After travelling a few paces into the hall, he turned his head to look behind him. He called to Athelstan, “What are you waiting for, priest?”

The hall seemed endless to Ragnar. He was accustomed to spending time in the wide expanse of the outdoors. He lamented that he had been confined to only one dim room for days.

Athelstan followed Ragnar out the door. He stayed close, beside Ragnar as he took step after step down the hall toward the kitchen where the monks had prepared their afternoon meal. Athelstan offered encouragement, saying, “You’re doing really well with those crutches. Much better than Brother Thomas, as I recall.”

Ragnar followed the scent of food that led him toward the kitchen. He passed the doors of other rooms, where, presumably, visitors to the monastery would be given lodging. A wall with fresh plaster told of the damage that had been recently repaired.

In the kitchen, the hustle and bustle of monk’s activities made the air vibrate. The strange men, in their long brown habits, scurried among the pots of stew and platters of food.

“This is the biggest meal of the day,” Athelstan informed him. “I think Brother Hedrick prepared enough to feed a full complement of monks as usual, even though half of us are absent.”

The notion sent a pang of sorrow to Ragnar’s heart. He knew that, according to what Athelstan had told him, his own people were responsible for the small number of mouths to feed. He tried to remember what happened when he arrived at Lindisfarne.

Did he voyage across the sea to get here?

Did he wield an axe against Athelstan’s friends?

Did he lead the charge?

Before Ragnar could dwell on it for too long, Matthew greeted him.

Matthew, with his familiar face and cheerful smile, led Ragnar through the kitchen to the dining area. Ragnar tried not to notice the harsh looks he received from a few of the monks. He could already guess which one was called _Finian_.

Matthew offered Ragnar a seat on a bench and made room for him to stretch out his leg that he had helped bind into the rudimentary splint on the evening before.

The long table was set with simple wooden bowls, a plate, and a cup for each man. A few monks, led by Hedrick, brought heaping platters of food from the kitchen.

Ragnar was relieved when Athelstan took a seat across from him. Without understanding the Englishmen’s language, Ragnar relied on Athelstan. He was like an anchor in a storm that served to keep him safe from the swelling seas.

When all the monks were seated, they began to pray. Ragnar had heard the prayers many times since he had been taking refuge in the monastery. The soft tones of their singing wafted down the hall to the room where he had been confined. From observing Athelstan, he had learned to touch his forehead, his chest and shoulders in the manner that the monks did. He did so now, as the monks spoke. He hoped that it pleased them.

 _“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,”_ they said in unison.

Even if Ragnar did not understand the words, he bowed his head in reverence to show appreciation for Athelstan, his rescuer.

Ragnar joined the monks in saying the one word he remembered hearing many times, “Amen.” He hoped that by joining the monks, they would become aware of how grateful he was for what they had done for him. It would be a terrible thing to offend them, although Ragnar was not sure if his abstinence from speaking the full blessing would be offensive. He would ask Athelstan about it later, when they had a moment alone.

 _“Let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us. Establish Thou the work of our hands,”_ Brother Hedrick led the midday prayer.

Athelstan quickly translated the prayer for Ragnar, and he informed him that, in Father Cuthbert’s absence, the monks each took a turn in leading the prayers. This made sense to Ragnar. He was certain that he had heard Athelstan’s voice leading such prayers over the past day when he was on the edge of a feverdream. 

Since he managed the kitchen at Lindisfarne, Brother Hedrick was given the honour of leading the prayer today. 

Ragnar hated to think of what would have happened if Brother Hedrick had been killed in the raid. The meals would not have been as bountiful or as pleasing to the nose.

Indeed, Brother Hedrick had made the best of their limited food stores. Ragnar was sorry to learn from Athelstan that the raiders had taken the more coveted foods, dried meat, butter, and ale, back to the sea when they left.

 _“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name,”_ Brother Hedrick began.

By now, Ragnar knew some of the sounds the words made and he could mumble along to Athelstan’s satisfaction.

 _“Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”_

Ragnar looked up from his clasped hands. He watched as Athelstan grinned at him from across the table.

_“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”_

Ragnar recognised the word. Athelstan had described the concept of forgiveness to him. It explained a lot about why the monks didn’t kill Ragnar while he was asleep.

These men were so strange.

_“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”_

“Amen,” Ragnar said fighting the feeling that all eyes were on him as if he were the evil that existed among them.

Brother Hedrick had made a rich stew of carrots and onions that smothered hunks of white fish. Athelstan told Ragnar that fish often supplemented their diet.

Ragnar understood the importance of the fish, since the heathens had taken so much of the monk’s food stores. The monks had been doubly fortunate to live by the sea because they had been able to use additional water from the sea to extinguish the fires that the heathens had set when they pillaged there. The smell of smoke still lingered in the air, and it was certain to do so for many weeks.

The monks were accustomed to fishing, and they were quite adept at it, since their monastery was so near the sea—Ragnar could understand them on that level, because he remembered that he, too, was a man of the sea.

~

Days passed. The tides rose and fell, washing over and retreating from shores of Lindisfarne. Before long, a whole week had passed with Ragnar at the monastery, and then two weeks.

Athelstan was worried. There still had been no consensus about what to do with Ragnar when word reached Newcastle that Lindisfarne had been attacked. The king’s men would want to investigate. The community of monks who dwelled on the small island rarely had cause to interact with the outside world. Unless they were travelling to some far-off land to spread the word of God, they spent their days praying, studying, and illuminating the manuscripts of the sacred texts at the monastery.

Ragnar helped where he could, despite his leg. The broken leg seemed to be the worst of the physical injuries he sustained in the raid… not counting the loss of his memory. The monks expected the arrival of fresh supplies in a couple short weeks and Athelstan worried what would become of Ragnar then.

Athelstan didn’t trust Ragnar, not fully. But he needed him to prove a point. He wanted to prove that goodness could be found in any man. Teaching Ragnar about forgiveness and the ways of the Christians was worth Athelstan’s effort. It simply had to be.

Ragnar grew stronger every day. With food and warmth, his injuries began to heal. Athelstan found it hard to believe that Ragnar remembered nothing of the raid that took place upon his arrival at Lindisfarne. Athelstan told Ragnar of the horrors of that day. He spent hours in silent terror, hidden behind the altar, clinging to the Gospel of Saint John, fearing that every breath he took might be his last. 

He could not blame a few of the monks if they viewed Ragnar as the evil from which they asked God to deliver them. Still, most of the monks seemed grateful for Ragnar’s help when they needed a second pair of hands in repairing the damage to the monastery. He had even learned some English so he could communicate better with the monks, as long as they used simple words with him. Ragnar obviously liked keeping busy.

Ragnar’s alliance with Athelstan seemed to benefit both the monks and the heathen.

“You’ll heal faster if you quit overdoing it,” Athelstan said, one night when Ragnar could barely hobble back to Father Cuthbert’s room. Athelstan now thought of it as Ragnar’s room, since he had been the room’s sole occupant since Father Cuthbert’s death.

“You know that I cannot resist a challenge,” Ragnar said, collapsing onto the tiny bed.

“Brother Sebastian was grateful for your help installing the new door, but you needn’t work so hard to impress him.”

Athelstan helped lift Ragnar’s leg up onto the bed. The limb had been healing well, but Ragnar had a difficult time staying off it. Athelstan gently deposited the damaged leg next to Ragnar’s good leg.

Ragnar reclined back and stretched his arms.

“I saw that,” Athelstan said, remarking on the grimace that crossed Ragnar’s face when his stitches pulled tight.” 

“It is time that the stitches come out, anyway,” Ragnar said. “Where is your knife?”

“What makes you think I carry a knife around with me?” Athelstan asked.

“You had a knife on my first night here,” Ragnar said.

“That was different.”

“How so?”

“You were a danger.”

Ragnar sighed. “You are not going to let me forget that.”

“I didn’t mean….”

“I know. Come help me cut these damn stitches.”

Athelstan went to the desk and pushed the pitcher of ale aside. Behind it, he found what he was looking for. A small knife from the kitchen was stuck between the pages in the Gospel of Saint John. He had been reading to Ragnar from the book every night, translating the Latin words into Norse for Ragnar’s benefit. A knife that Athelstan had been using to slice pieces of pear when he last read marked the place where he left off.

“Let’s have a look,” Athelstan said. He walked to Ragnar and sat on the edge of the bed.

Ragnar lifted his tunic and pulled it over his head.

“There’s no need to remove your clothes,” Athelstan said. His pulse quickened and he fought down the urge to look his fill. Instead, he reached up and yanked on the hem of Ragnar’s tunic, pulling the fabric down so it covered his Northman more thoroughly.

 _He’s not my Northman,_ Athelstan told himself.

Ragnar scoffed at Athelstan’s fussing. He folded his hands behind his head and let Athelstan go to work.

Athelstan pushed the tunic back and only exposed the amount of flesh that he needed to see. The long thin line of stitches ran beneath Ragnar’s ribs, covering the distance of a handbreadth. Athelstan swallowed hard and placed his left hand on the warm skin. In his right hand, he held the knife. He said a silent prayer that the knife would be sharp enough to cut through the tiny silk stitches. He assured himself that he had nothing to worry about.

Athelstan lifted the first stitch with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. With the knife in his right hand, he caught the sharp point between the stitch and Ragnar’s skin. Using a quick movement, he sliced through the silk. 

“You need to breathe,” Ragnar said.

It was only then that Athelstan became acutely aware of Ragnar’s eyes on him—and the fact that he wasn’t breathing when he was under his gaze. He tried to ignore the piercing stare, the blue as brilliant as any ocean Athelstan had ever seen in his travels.

“That’s one,” Athelstan said, taking a breath.

“Only eleven more to go,” Ragnar said.

“You counted them?”

“Did you not?”

“I only made them.”

“They are in my body.”

“I didn’t need to count them. I just needed to stop your innards from leaking out.”

“You did a fine job.”

“Thank you,” Athelstan said. At this rate, removing Ragnar’s stitches would take all night. He felt the rise and fall of Ragnar’s chest as he breathed. He wanted to get the stitches removed before it became too dark to see what he was doing. The sun had already slipped behind the mainland. It illuminated the long causeway that led from the island’s northwest shore, just barely above water at the low tide mark.

It was on this strip of land that the king’s men would march, bringing supplies to the monks at Lindisfarne. The monthly ritual had taken place for as long as Athelstan had been at the monastery—ever since King Aelle granted the island and its surrounding landscape to the monks for the study of religious texts and for worshipful service. The monks were mostly self-sufficient, but each monthly visit brought news of the world, textiles, and replenishment of their food stores. The men who brought their supplies would learn of the raid as soon as they arrived. They were bound to notice that half of the monks were missing and the scars that marked the fires and battery upon the monastery walls.

Ragnar would be blamed. He might even be killed right then and there.

Athelstan dipped his knife between the threads of the next stitch and cut.

“After I get a bit further along, you can try to pick the threads out,” Athelstan said.

“I thought you were doing that.”

“No, I’m just cutting them open.”

“Am I bleeding?”

“No, not yet. It looks well healed.”

“It feels cool, wet with blood.”

“Well, it’s not. Are you not watching?”

“No.”

Athelstan cut another stitch.

“Why not?”

“You don’t look like you are watching either,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan hummed and picked up another stitch.

“What were you looking at?”

“I was watching the sun set and hoping I had enough light to do this,” Athelstan said.

“I have not looked out there often,” Ragnar said. “What is so interesting?”

“You can see the mainland, when the sun hits the causeway.”

“I thought we were on an island?”

“We are,” Athelstan said, “most of the time.”

“How is that so? Clearly, I have not had time to hobble around the island, that is sometimes not an island, long enough to discover its many secrets.”

“You could help,” Athelstan set the knife on Ragnar’s belly and grasped his hand. He could not avoid seeing the look of amusement in Ragnar’s eyes.

“What?”

“Touch here,” Athelstan said, forcing Ragnar’s fingers to find the loose ends of the first cut stitch. “If you just tug on it a bit.”

Ragnar pinched at the loose stitch. He gave it a tug, but it pulled the skin and he cried out.

Athelstan raised an eyebrow to him. “Surely that did not hurt a mighty warrior like you?”

“What if it did?”

“It will take some effort to pull them out if they are stuck,” Athelstan said with a huff. He reached for the second stitch which looked much less entrapped by Ragnar’s skin. He gave a gentle pull and held the short length of silk between his fingers. “See, that one came out easily.”

“You are better at this than I am,” Ragnar said.

“I think you simply want me to cater to you,” Athelstan said. The thought of it sent a frisson down his spine. He was treading into dangerous territory now.

“You are a good caretaker,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan shifted his position on the bed, so he was more comfortable.

“Strangers would not hesitate to leave their children with you, for looking after,” Ragnar said.

“Where did that come from?” Athelstan asked, squinting as he removed another stitch.

Athelstan felt Ragnar’s eyes rove over him. He cut two more stitches.

“Tell me more about this island,” Ragnar said. “How it is an island, and not an island, at the same time?”

“When the tide goes out, it is an island no more,” Athelstan said, taking care to cut another stitch. “A long stretch of sand connects us to the mainland.”

“Can men walk onto the island by using this stretch of sand?” Ragnar asked.

“It is difficult to walk in the wet sand, but many men have done so,” Athelstan said. “It is also very dangerous.”

“Dangerous? What could be dangerous about travelling across a stretch of sand?”

Athelstan finished with the stitch he was cutting and met Ragnar’s eyes. “When the tide comes in, a man could be stranded on the mainland, or worse.”

“That does not sound so terrible,” Ragnar said.

“A man could be stranded on the sand when the tide came in,” Athelstan said, lifting another stitch with his knife.

“So, he would swim to shore.”

Athelstan’s hands stilled. “It is difficult to swim in a monk’s habit.”

Ragnar’s eyes flew open. “This happened to someone you knew?”

“I was young and foolish once,” Athelstan said.

“And yet it was not too dangerous for you. You safely swam to shore?”

“I nearly drowned,” Athelstan said.

“But you were saved?”

“I was saved by my faith in God,” Athelstan said. “I give him thanks for my life every day.”

“I would give him thanks for your life, too,” Ragnar said, folding his hands in prayer as he had seen the monks do.

Athelstan smiled as he cut another stitch.

“Do you need to cross this sand often?” Ragnar asked.

“No. When we leave the monastery to bring the word of God to heathens and non-believers, we use a boat to get to the shore. It’s much safer that way,” Athelstan said.

“And is this how the king’s men bring supplies to you? They use a boat to sail across from the mainland?”

“Sometimes they use the sand, if it is stable enough for their horses to cross,” Athelstan said.

“I see,” Ragnar said. “It depends on the tides.”

“And the weather,” Athelstan said. “It depends on many factors. The size of the load that the horses carry, the time of day, how many men are with them who need to make it safely across.”

He worked as he spoke, slicing through another stitch with his knife.

“And it is here, across this stretch of sand, that they will take me away?” Ragnar said quietly.

Athelstan’s mouth fell open. He closed it quickly, realizing what Ragnar was asking.

Would this be the path he would follow to his death? 

Athelstan couldn’t bear to answer him. He swallowed and spoke, “Ragnar, I promise you, I am going to do everything I can to clear your name.” 

“I know you will,” Ragnar said.

And then, Ragnar reached over and punched Athelstan’s arm.

“Hey,” Athelstan said. “What was that for?”

Ragnar leaned back, looking smug. “Where I come from, it is a sign of camaraderie.”

Athelstan set the knife on Ragnar’s belly and rubbed his arm. “I was holding a knife,” he said.

“But you were not holding it as a weapon.”

“No,” Athelstan said. “Why would I?”

“Perhaps to strike an assailant, or to defend yourself,” Ragnar said.

“The only defence I need is prayer,” Athelstan said.

“That may be true in here,” Ragnar said, prodding Athelstan’s forehead with a finger. “But in a real battle, it is better to know how to use a weapon of steel.”

Athelstan shrugged. “You could be right,” he said, pausing to slice through another stitch. “You’re remembering again.”

“Remembering?”

“Remembering how you were before you came to Lindisfarne.”

“Maybe a little,” Ragnar said.

“You speak of battles and weapons and knives and steel, as if they were the everyday things that people always speak about.”

“Maybe I am the way I am,” Ragnar said. “Maybe I will always think in these ways, whether my memory returns or not.”

Athelstan looked at him sceptically before slicing through another stitch.

“Is that the last one?” Ragnar asked.

“It is,” Athelstan said. He scooted off the bed and put the knife in the basin to be washed.

“There’s still a few loose threads hanging from your skin,” Athelstan said.

“Just pull them out,” Ragnar said, running a hand over his belly.

“You should try to pull them out. You are aware of how much pressure you’ll need to use,” Athelstan said. “I don’t want to make you cry again.”

Ragnar grasped a single loose thread between his thumb and his forefinger.

Athelstan watched Ragnar’s fingers pull the thread tight. He shifted his gaze so he watched Ragnar’s eyes.

Ragnar gave a strong tug and pulled the thread free.

Athelstan noticed that Ragnar didn’t bat an eyelash.

~

Another week passed and Ragnar had become adept at hobbling around using the crutches that Athelstan had found for him. He became accustomed to the monk’s routines and he joined them in mumbling their prayers whenever the opportunity arose. Despite the monk’s fair treatment, Ragnar yearned to go outdoors, to feel the sunlight on his face, the wind in his braids. On a day when the sun burst through the clouds to warm the island, he ventured outside the monastery for the first time since he had been rescued from the cold beach.

Ragnar carefully placed the base of the crutches in front of him and used them to guide his way. He found that he could put some weight on his injured leg, which was still supported by the brace, but Brother Hedrick had cautioned him against doing too much too soon. He practiced walking the halls of Lindisfarne before he ventured outside, but he found the practice boring and monotonous. Unfortunately, the loose gravel that led from the monastery to the causeway was only a bit more stable to travel upon than the sand itself.

Despite the sun, the breeze stiffly blew from the sea. It stirred up the sand on the causeway and Ragnar had to close his eyes to keep the grit out of them. He leaned against a rock where the causeway met the island. The rock was the size of a wild boar, so it offered enough room for Ragnar to sit. Athelstan could even join him there if he desired, but for now, Athelstan was busy picking mussels from the rocks in the tidal pools of the causeway’s sea side.

Ragnar watched Athelstan, his long habit soaked in the stray waves that dared come to the causeway’s shore. They only had an hour or so before the waves would crash inland again and the causeway would surrender to the sea.

Brother Hedrick’s food stores had been running low, so Athelstan agreed to harvest some of the ocean’s bounty. That was just like Athelstan—Ragnar noticed that Athelstan always volunteered to help wherever he was needed. He supposed he should be grateful that it was Athelstan who had volunteered to scour the beach, in search of stolen treasures that did not make it to the Northmen’s ship. This volunteerism led Athelstan to Ragnar those many weeks ago. 

After their morning prayer, Athelstan invited Ragnar to join him at the sea. Ragnar suspected that Athelstan knew that he wanted to get outside, to enjoy some fresh air, and get away from the bustling activity of the monastery repairs. Although Ragnar could not bend effectively enough to pick mussels that clung to the rocky shore, he could keep Athelstan company. And Athelstan was right, Ragnar craved the fresh air and the moments spent in the open by the sea. It reminded him of home.

Some distance down the causeway, Athelstan turned to Ragnar and waved. He pointed at the bucket he held up to show Ragnar that it was full of mussels. Ragnar waved back from his perch on the wild boar’s back.

On the opposite side of the causeway from where Athelstan harvested their dinner, the sand gave way to a cove that stretched toward the mainland. Today’s wind whipped the water of the cove’s surface into a frenzy of whitecaps. Ragnar watched the rush of waves as they reached the distant shore.

Now that Ragnar saw the causeway, he could understand what Athelstan had once explained to him about the danger of being trapped there when the tide rose. It was nearly a half-mile from monastery to the mainland, if one treaded on the narrow strip of sand. When a traveller reached the mainland, he had to turn back for the monastery as soon as he arrived, lest the sea rush in and cover the path to safety. Ragnar could only imagine Athelstan’s terror when he was young and nearly drowned here.

Behind Ragnar, the monastery stood. A high cliff led from the sea to the wall of the monastery that bore the brunt of the north winds. Ragnar recalled the story Athelstan told him about Brother Thomas scaling the wall here. Ragnar watched the waves pound the jagged cliff. He imagined that Brother Thomas was lucky to have escaped with his life.

It seemed that the monks of Lindisfarne often suffered from injuries that they needed to treat themselves, without the aid of a skilled medicine man or herbalist. The monk’s medical treatments were no better than what Ragnar remembered from Kattegat.

Kattegat.

Ragnar wrapped his cape more thoroughly around his shoulders.

As the days passed, Ragnar remembered the name of the village from where he set sail with his kinsmen. But still, the memory of what transpired before he reached Lindisfarne swam beyond his grasp whenever he tried to reach for it. He did not dare tell Athelstan that he remembered much more than a few stray memories that would be of little consequence. Athelstan seemed keen to teach Ragnar about the monk’s lives and about their God, Jesus Christ, and his ways of goodness. It would be unwise for Ragnar to insult Athelstan by confessing that he belonged to a community that raided and plundered their unwitting neighbours, instead of caring for them as Athelstan had done for Ragnar.

At night, Ragnar still slept in the bed that once belonged to Athelstan’s mentor, Father Cuthbert. And every night, Ragnar enjoyed hearing Athelstan’s tales about his God. In many ways, they reminded him of the gods Ragnar knew, Odin and Thor. But for Athelstan’s sake, Ragnar kept his stories of his gods to himself. It would do no good to jeopardize the relationship he had with the monks who, with the exception of Brother Finian and his few allies, had nothing but his best interests in mind. Athelstan, Matthew, and Hedrick were trying to heal him and make him whole again.

Indeed, his eye was no longer swollen. His head still had a lump the size of an eagle’s egg on it from some unknown swing of an axe or smash of a shield. The scar from the stitches itched and Ragnar had yet to pull all the loose threads from his belly, but the skin around the gash looked like it was growing anew. It rarely caused Ragnar any pain, except for the discomfort of the itching as the scab healed. His leg still ached if he spent a lot of time on it, but he could get around well enough with the help of the crutches and the brace.

Ragnar appreciated having Athelstan as his ally.

“What are you thinking about?” Athelstan asked. He left the bucket of mussels on the sand and hopped onto the wild boar’s back.

“It is nothing,” Ragnar said. He had been so intent on watching the whitecaps reach the mainland, he barely noticed Athelstan’s approach.

Athelstan’s thigh, cold beneath his habit, pressed against Ragnar’s. The wind must have chilled him when he was gathering the mussels.

“You are cold?” Ragnar asked.

“A little,” Athelstan said.

Ragnar reached for the knot that tied his cape beneath his chin. He undid the knot and took the woollen cape off his shoulders.

“Here,” Ragnar said. He shook the wrinkles out of the cape and wrapped it around Athelstan like a shawl.

“I don’t need it,” Athelstan said.

“You do. I can feel how cold you are through your habit. The chill is rushing off your body like a wave rushes to the shore.”

“Very well,” Athelstan said.

The bottom of Athelstan’s habit was soaked. He tucked his bare feet underneath him to where the fabric was dry. The motion made him lean onto Ragnar for support, so he didn’t topple off the rock formation.

They silently watched the sea rise as each new wave reached a high watermark on the causeway. After a few more waves crashed in, Ragnar could no longer see the place where Athelstan had been gathering mussels.

Athelstan’s body was still cold beside him. Ragnar watched his face as he gazed toward the mainland, the wind tousling his curly hair, so that it no longer looked like he wore a tonsure. The effort that it took to reach this rock on the island at the start of the causeway must have warmed the blood in Ragnar’s veins. He was not as affected by the cold as Athelstan. He wrapped an arm around Athelstan’s shivering shoulders and held it there. Neither man remarked on the intimacy.

“I hoped it would be today,” Athelstan finally said.

“What?” Ragnar asked.

“I hoped today would be the day when the king’s men would bring our supplies.”

The crash of the waves swallowed the causeway. No man would be able to cross it for another day.

Athelstan turned to Ragnar.

Ragnar could finally sense some warmth coming from him.

“I had hoped….” Athelstan said. He looked away and watched the mainland again.

Ragnar thought he knew what Athelstan had hoped for, but he nudged him with his shoulder, just to be sure.

“I hoped that the king’s men would come and meet me first. I could explain to them about the raid, about the killings, about the lost gold and the church’s treasures. I could be there to defend you from them if they wanted to kill you.”

Ragnar tilted his head so it rested on Athelstan’s shoulder.

“I would expect nothing less from you,” Ragnar said.

“Hmmm?” Athelstan asked.

“You are always the first one to volunteer. You are the first monk to help when something needs to be done. You were roaming the beach when you found me. No other monk tries to do as much as you. No other monk offers his hands as readily as you. It does not surprise me that you would come here to try to save my life.”

“It’s my nature, I suppose, and my duty,” Athelstan said. “I cannot sit by and idly watch bad things happen without trying to do something to change them. Just as the Lord, Jesus Christ fed the hungry, clothed the naked, and helped the poor. It is my calling to serve others as Christ leads us to do by his divine example. I am compelled to act in a way that is godly.”

Ragnar watched as the waves became bolder. They crashed on the sand and reached out with their tendrils of sea foam, each of Aegir’s brave fingers approaching closer to where Ragnar and Athelstan sat.

“Your God and my gods are a lot alike,” Ragnar said.

Ragnar felt Athelstan’s shoulders stiffen beneath his arm. He knew at once that he had said too much. Ragnar’s emotions were torn in two directions. He wondered what harm would be done if he confessed that more of his memory was returning. As long as Athelstan did not see Ragnar as a violent heathen, Ragnar thought it would be wise to make Athelstan aware of his discovery.

The tendrils of sea retreated, leaving only foam upon the sand until the next wave approached.

“I remember some things,” Ragnar said quietly.

A wave crashed and retreated. The wind became still.

“Do you remember killing the monks at Lindisfarne?” Athelstan asked tentatively.

“No, I do not remember anything beyond a voyage on the sea,” Ragnar said. “I could not live with myself if I harmed you or your friends who have shown me nothing but acceptance and patience in these past weeks.”

Athelstan’s shoulders relaxed. Ragnar dared to rub his hand across Athelstan’s back. The stiff and scratchy fabric of the cape caught on Ragnar’s calloused hand.

Athelstan shifted his seat on the wild boar, moving closer to Ragnar, still.

The warmth rose from within Ragnar.

“I come from Kattegat,” he said.

~


	5. Chapter 5

Another week passed. Still, the monk’s supplies had not arrived. Athelstan grew weary of walking the beach at every low tide, hunting for mussels or crabs that the tide would reveal in the craggy rocks of Lindisfarne. He prayed to God that the supplies would arrive soon, so he could stop worrying about defending Ragnar from the men whom the king had given the authority to judge.

Athelstan insisted that Ragnar always accompany him. What better way to convince the king’s men that Ragnar meant them no harm, than to show the men how useful Ragnar was to Athelstan?

Ragnar used only one crutch these days, and Athelstan was grateful because it allowed him to help carry the buckets of shellfish from the causeway to the monastery kitchen. Ragnar could always lean on Athelstan if his limping got worse.

In the week that had passed since Ragnar told Athelstan about Kattegat, Athelstan had learned more about fishing than he ever knew in his life.

“You can leave those here,” Brother Hedrick said, indicating the place on the kitchen shelf that he cleared for the mussels. He had already set the water to boil, although the noon hour was a long way off. In these lean times, the monks needed to eat when the food was available. This meant that they ate when the fish had been harvested.

“Have you checked your nets yet?” Brother Sebastian asked. “If you haven’t, Brother Roderick and I will go to help you.”

“Thank you,” Athelstan said, hoisting the bucket of mussels to the shelf where Hedrick kept the food to prepare. He then took Ragnar’s bucket and set it beside the other.

“Fish, fish, and more fish,” Hedrick said. “I am tiring of eating fish every day.”

“The Lord will provide for us,” Athelstan reminded him. He then turned to Ragnar and spoke in Norse, “Roderick and Sebastian are going to help me with the nets.”

Ragnar had already understood. A month of living at Lindisfarne gave him the opportunity to learn enough English that he could communicate a little with the natives. In addition, Athelstan read from the Gospel of Saint John to him every evening. He was quite pleased with the Northman’s progress.

“You can wait here, if you’d like,” Athelstan said. There was no point in Ragnar overdoing it with his leg. He had already made so much progress in healing. Hedrick always needed a pair of extra hands in the kitchen.

“I prefer to go with you,” Ragnar said. “I can help with the net.”

“As you like,” Athelstan said. He couldn’t blame Ragnar for wanting to stay at his side. Besides, he enjoyed Ragnar’s company and the new stories he told. Athelstan had lived at the monastery for so long, he had already listened to Sebastian and Roderick’s stories from their youth, a hundred times over.

Ragnar grabbed his one crutch and followed the monks from the kitchen. Although he still needed the brace to support his leg, Ragnar’s tolerance for activity had grown in the past week. Soon, he would be walking without a brace or a crutch. This made Athelstan nostalgic for the days when Ragnar depended exclusively on him for communication and for his well-being. He sighed as he walked along the sand that no longer gave Ragnar very much trouble to navigate any more. Athelstan knew in his heart that he should rejoice in Ragnar’s recovery, even if it made Ragnar less dependent on Athelstan.

“It looks like the net was a success again,” Roderick said, when they reached the cove.

“I’ll take the far end,” Sebastian said, wading into the cold water, his habit soaking through to his waist. The water of the cove was calm and today’s small waves barely rippled the surface.

Since Ragnar had confessed to Athelstan that he remembered life in Kattegat, the fishing village where Ragnar grew up, he had helped the monks with all manner of fishing techniques. One such method was to weave a net from the fibres of old blankets and habits that were stored away at the monastery. They weren’t doing anyone much good in storage, so Athelstan was happy to re-purpose them. The fibre was braided into long lengths of rope that then were woven into a lattice to trap the fish that swam into the cove during the high tide.

Athelstan thought he recognized the fibres from Father Cuthbert’s blanket in the net that Brother Sebastian raised from the water of the cove.

“Pull it in,” Sebastian called from the water.

Roderick and Athelstan hauled on the net, while Sebastian kept the trapped fish from escaping. Ragnar lent his strength to the effort, anchoring the net behind Athelstan.

When Athelstan leaned back, he could feel the bulk of Ragnar’s body as he held the end of the net firm. Athelstan quickly pushed himself forward to get away from the fires that sparked along his spine when he and Ragnar touched. So far, he had been able to quell the desires of the flesh that sometimes distracted him from doing God’s work. Ragnar’s close presence never made this easy.

“Pull,” Athelstan shouted, even though Roderick was right in front of him.

The men pulled the net, hand over hand, until the whole of it reached the shore. A dozen fish floundered when they touched the sand. The catch would be enough to feed the monks for another day.

Sebastian waded ashore, pointlessly holding the hem of his habit out of the water as he took long strides in the shallow water.

“I’ve got to hand it to you,” Sebastian said, looking at Athelstan as he gave Ragnar’s shoulder a friendly clap. “Your Northman certainly knows a lot about fishing.’

Athelstan laughed. “He’s not _my_ Northman.”

It was true that Ragnar was a free man, belonging to no one, at least for now. Athelstan feared that his association to Ragnar would only make it more painful when they parted, as they were certain to do someday soon.

After the fish were gathered, Athelstan helped set the net for the next tide. Many hands made light work, and soon the men carried the day’s catch back up to the monastery.

“I’ve got a seat here for you, big man,” Hedrick said, when he saw Ragnar hobble through the kitchen door.

Ragnar gladly accepted Hedrick’s offer. Athelstan watched as Hedrick put a knife into Ragnar’s hand. His breath caught in his throat when he remembered how adept Ragnar was at wielding a blade. But there was nothing for Athelstan to worry about. On this day, Ragnar made quick work of the fish, filleting each for Hedrick to roast on the kitchen fire.

“Still no sign of the king’s men?” Finian asked, dipping a long ladle into the pot and pulling out a mussel.

The dark shell had burst open and Finian tossed the mussel, from one hand to the other and back, to cool it.

“I can’t take my eyes off the shore, when I’m outdoors,” Athelstan said.

“They’re quite overdue now,” Benedict said, as he worked to pull the benches up to the table.

“Perhaps it’s time we sent a search party?” Daniel suggested, his eyes falling on Ragnar.

Athelstan knew that Daniel couldn’t wait to tell someone, anyone from the outside world, about the turn of events at Lindisfarne. The son of a bannerman, Daniel had long heard stories of his father’s service to king Aelle. As it was the custom in Northumbria, the youngest boy of the family was sent to study the word of God. As the last-born son with eight older brothers, this honour fell to Brother Daniel. However, he did not view his service as one of high privilege, as Athelstan did. With only a little persuasion, Daniel could have war in his veins. It would not surprise Athelstan to learn that Daniel wanted Ragnar dead for what happened to the monks who were killed or stolen away. He would probably kill Ragnar himself, given the opportunity.

Athelstan was certain that Daniel feared his time at the monastery would be extended because of the dearth of monks after the raid. He would need to stay to train new monks so they could take up the mantle of illumination and translation, not to mention food preparation, gardening, and fishing.

Although monks like Daniel thought the monastic life a chore, Athelstan never wanted to leave the world of Lindisfarne. Yes, he had travelled to Francia and beyond and he had learned as many languages as he knew existed, but he always felt most at home within the walls of the monastery. 

In many ways, he felt like he got more than what he deserved by being sent to live with the monks at Lindisfarne. He sometimes wondered what would have become of him if he had survived the fevered plague that claimed his parents, his brothers, and sister. Would he have roamed Northumbria without an anchor? Would he live as a pauper, begging for food? By God’s grace, he had been sent to the monastery to learn about the love of God, who gave his only son that the world’s souls would be saved. For this, Athelstan was grateful every day.

At the monastery, Athelstan received so much more than the family who he left behind. He had clothing, and food, and shelter, not to mention a brotherhood with the monks who dwelled there. And most importantly of all, he got to share what he knew about God’s love with visitors to Lindisfarne and sometimes as an ambassador to the rest of the world.

Despite the breadth of his travels, Athelstan could safely say that, in all his journeys, he had never met anyone like Ragnar. He remembered the horrible day of the raid, when life at Lindisfarne was turned upside down.

He had never feared like that before. Indeed, he had gone to Father Cuthbert’s room with concerns that Judgement Day was upon them. This short journey down the hall was what likely saved Athelstan’s life. It was from Father Cuthbert’s room that Athelstan had ducked into the chapel. Hearing the commotion in the hall, the screams of agony as his brothers were cut down, Athelstan panicked. He grabbed the Gospel of Saint John from the stand and hid behind the altar. He listened to the Northmen as they stole the chapel’s riches and destroyed everything that they left in their wake. He hoped to never live through a day like that again.

Sometimes Athelstan wondered… if Ragnar’s kinsmen could raid the monastery as they had, what would prevent other raiders from coming to Lindisfarne? And what would they take, now that the riches were all gone?

_“Teach us, dear Lord, to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.”_

Brother Jasper began the prayer before today’s meal.

Athelstan hurried to take his seat across from Brother Matthew, who sat beside Ragnar. Matthew still took care to make sure Ragnar had plenty of room for his brace. Athelstan hurriedly made the sign of the cross and bowed his head.

_“Oh, satisfy us early with Thy mercy, that we may rejoice and be glad all of our days.”_

Athelstan wondered if Ragnar understood the meaning of the prayer. He truly seemed at peace, as if he understood. The dark circles had faded from around his eyes, and the eye that was damaged when Athelstan first found him had healed without a trace of the injury that it had incurred.

_“And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us, and establish Thou the work of our hands.”_

Athelstan caught Ragnar looking at his hands and this told him that Ragnar understood at least a few of the words of the prayer.

“Amen,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan’s eyes met Ragnar’s and he nodded, a feeling of utter calm washing over him. It had been the first time that Athelstan truly relaxed since the raid.

Brother Benedict passed the platter of mussels to the other brothers, while Brother Lucian served the fish that had been baked on the open hearth.

“No bread today,” Brother Daniel grumbled.

“And there won’t be any bread until the supply of grain comes from the mill with the king’s men,” Brother Finian added.

“Complaining will not make the food stores arrive any faster,” Brother Matthew reminded them.

“We should be grateful for what we do have,” Athelstan said. He was tired of hearing Finian’s complaints, especially when he had barely lifted a finger to do anything to prepare the meal.

“I’m sick of eating at these odd hours, too,” Daniel said. “It’s not even noontime yet.”

“You should be thankful that you have your life,” Matthew said with a huff.

“What would Father Cuthbert do in such a situation?” Brother Hedrick asked, pausing before taking another bite of fish.

Athelstan was relieved to hear Hedrick inject some common sense into the conversation. Father Cuthbert had been a good leader and a great teacher. The monastery wasn’t the same without his firm guidance. It was time for someone, with the same principles, to act.

Athelstan cleared his throat. “If the king’s men do not arrive in another week’s time, we should mount a search for them.”

Silence fell over the dining area.

“If we cannot find them, at least we should try to find out what happened to them,” Matthew said.

“It would be to our advantage if we found out what was holding up the supplies, but this uncertainty about what happened to the king’s men, after what happened here… well… I’d just like to know, one way or the other,” Lucian added.

“I’d like to go to the mainland,” Benedict said. “I would join Brother Athelstan in this journey.”

Athelstan had said nothing about making the journey himself. He foolishly assumed that Finian would volunteer to go, since he was so riled up about the food stores. He quickly considered Benedict’s offer and decided it was better to be the brave monk and venture out from Lindisfarne, rather than be left behind to manage Finian and Daniel’s discontent.

“Thank you, Brother Benedict,” Athelstan said, trying to sound enthused about the trip. “We can discuss the preparations after our midday prayers.”

“And we’ll take Ragnar with us?” Benedict asked, “If you’ll allow it.”

“Ragnar is a free man,” Athelstan said. “He can choose to stay or go.” Athelstan’s mind turned over the possibilities, but there were no easy answers. If Ragnar stayed, he would face Daniel and Finian’s wrath. And if the king’s men arrived at Lindisfarne after Athelstan left, Ragnar could face his death alone. If Ragnar chose to go with them, Athelstan worried about Ragnar’s half-healed leg. And Benedict had no sense of obligation to Ragnar. Athelstan feared what Benedict would say about Ragnar if the exploration party encountered the king’s men.

“I will go with you,” Ragnar said, his accent heavy, but the words unmistakeable.

Finian let out a guffaw.

Daniel looked at Finian.

Athelstan suspected that the two had been scheming about something involving Ragnar.

“Then, the three of us shall leave in one week’s time,” Benedict said, putting his cup down on the table with more force than necessary.

“May God go with you,” Finian said, raising his cup in a toast.

“Amen,” the monks said in a rousing chorus.

Athelstan raised his cup to his lips and drank in the toast. He hoped that the king’s men would show up before then.

~

The day before they left, Athelstan helped Ragnar wash his hair.

Ragnar thought it was a wise decision to remove the plaits that had been woven into his hair many months earlier… in Kattegat. First, he reached behind his head to untie the strips of leather that bound the segments of the braids together as one unified braid. Like the many different men he had encountered at Lindisfarne, each braid had its own characteristics, its own particular pattern of twining with the others around it. So it went with men, and with braids that told of his warrior past.

Ragnar struggled with the effort of holding his hands over his head for so long that they ached. When he reached the end of one strip of leather, he discovered that it had been knotted to others still unseen and unfelt. Of course, Athelstan, in his kindness, volunteered to help.

“Do you remember who did this?” Athelstan asked. He had worked his way behind Ragnar to sit so his back rested on the headboard of Father Cuthbert’s bed. With Athelstan’s legs splayed wide, one on each side of Ragnar, he could work on the tangled mess while Ragnar did nothing but offer encouragement.

Ragnar twisted his neck so he could see Athelstan’s face. “If I could remember, I would tell you.”

“Hmmph,” Athelstan said, giving Ragnar’s head a little shove before going back to work with a knife to cut through the leather strips. It was easier to cut through them, than to try untying them.

Ragnar obeyed him and turned to face forward again. He could see part way down the hall to where the chapel entrance had been fitted with a new wooden frame. The monks had a productive week replacing the wooden ornamentation that had been damaged in the raid. They relied on Ragnar to help set the frame upright, like the hoisting of the cross on which their saviour Jesus Christ was crucified. Ragnar lifted the frame and the monks helped set the footing into place. The frame juddered downward, secure—at least until the next heathens came to raid the monastery.

Beyond the chapel, the kitchen preparations, led by Hedrick, were already complete. The dried fish would have to sustain Athelstan, Benedict, and Ragnar on their journey.

“It was probably a beautiful shieldmaiden who braided my hair,” Ragnar said, trying to keep the smile out of his voice.

Athelstan’s fingers stilled in his hair.

“With long beautiful legs,” Ragnar said, slapping his hand down on Athelstan’s hairy leg, bare from where his habit was rucked up from the way he sat behind Ragnar with his legs open.

“Don’t,” Athelstan said, nudging him with a bony knee.

That only emboldened Ragnar further.

“What is wrong?” Have you never seen a woman with long beautiful legs?” Ragnar asked, running his hand over Athelstan’s knee and up toward his thigh.

“You can’t… I can’t….” Athelstan stammered.

“Oh, yes, lest I have forgotten,” Ragnar said, taking his hand off Athelstan. “You are a holy man, whose God has punished with the commandment to not think about a woman’s legs.”

“It’s not a commandment,” Athelstan said. “Stop, or I’ll take the knife and chop all of your braid off.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Ragnar said.

“Don’t tempt me,” Athelstan said. “I am the one holding the knife.”

“Very well,” Ragnar said, relaxing his shoulders. “I would not want to end up with a tonsure like yours. The king’s men would mistake me for a monk and then what?”

“Somehow I don’t think there is any danger of that happening,” Athelstan said.

~

_“Let nothing disturb thee, nothing affright thee. All things are passing, God never changeth.”_

Athelstan stood between Ragnar and Benedict with his head bowed, while Brother Matthew blessed their journey.

 _“Patient endurance attaineth to all things, who God possesseth in nothing is wanting. Alone, God sufficeth.”_

“I certainly hope so,” Ragnar muttered under his breath

Athelstan elbowed him and hoped the other monks hadn’t noticed.

Although Ragnar wore a warm tunic and the same heavy woollen trousers that Athelstan had first found for him in the monastery storeroom, he was dressed much differently from Athelstan and Benedict. Instead of wearing their plain brown woollen habits, the monks wore the same clothing that they wore when they brought the word of God to the non-believers, and believers alike, as they travelled across the continent.

Athelstan had tucked his grey trouser legs into his boots. Over his white undersmock, his long black habit covered him from his neck to his ankles. A white collar at his neck was flanked by a black cowl that circled his upper chest and ended in a hood behind his back. A small wooden cross dangled from the rope that wrapped around his waist. 

Benedict was dressed the same. There would be no mistaking the pair as anything other than monks from Lindisfarne. Athelstan hoped that their formal dress would bring them the respect that they had come to know as they travelled the world from the Court of Charlemagne to the island city of Paris.

Matthew dipped his fingers in the cup of holy water. The simple wooden cup had to suffice for this purpose, as the monastery’s golden chalices had been stolen away.

Athelstan raised his head and kept his eyes open when Matthew sent the spray of consecrated rain water at his face with a flick of his fingers. He did not turn his head to watch, but he hoped that Ragnar did the same.

The wind blew coolly across the cove. It made the drops of holy water sting on Athelstan’s face.

Beyond where the men stood, the small wooden boat bobbed up and down on the waves. The rope that attached it to the dock stretched and eased with each rush of water.

“I’ll get you over there in two trips,” Brother Lucian said. “On the first trip, I’ll take Brother Benedict and your supplies. On the second trip, I’ll ferry Ragnar and Athelstan. Then, I’ll bring the boat back to the shore.”

Athelstan nodded to Lucian.

“Let’s load the boat,” Benedict said, with a clap of his hands.

The three packed bedrolls sat on the sandy beach. Inside each package, a supply of dried fish, enough to sustain a man for a few days, was wrapped in cloth for the journey. A change of clothing, in case their clothing became so wet that it posed a danger to them, filled the remaining space. A cloak for each man and a rolled woollen blanket was affixed to the outside of each pack.

Athelstan picked up his pack and tested its weight. No matter how accustomed he was to travelling with the word of God, the weight of his belongings on the first day of a journey always seemed too heavy for him to carry. 

He watched as Ragnar easily hauled his pack onto his shoulders before carrying it to the boat. Athelstan decided that if Ragnar could easily manipulate the pack into place while using a walking staff in one hand to compensate for his healing leg, Athelstan could carry his with the same amount of grace—even if he had snuck a copy of the Gospel of Saint John into his bedroll.

One by one, the packs were loaded into the small boat. Athelstan watched as Benedict embraced each of the brothers, saying his goodbyes, and God be with you, to the friends who he knew not when he would see again.

After one backward glance, Benedict climbed into the boat behind Lucian and it was Athelstan’s turn to say goodbye. As he embraced each of his brothers, Athelstan kept his eyes on Ragnar.

Ragnar watched as Lucian rowed the boat across the cove to the shore of the mainland. He gripped the top of his staff. His long clean hair, its braiding undone, whipped in the wind. To Athelstan, Ragnar almost looked like a scruffy Englishman. The thought of it made him laugh.

By the time his goodbyes were said, Athelstan watched as Benedict disembarked from the boat on the opposite shore. He could almost make out his and Lucian’s forms as they trudged through the shallow water, carrying their supplies to a safe place above the high water mark.

“I know you’ll only be gone for a few days at most,” Matthew whispered in Athelstan’s ear as they embraced.

“I hope so, brother,” Athelstan said, tightening his arms around his friend.

“You have a knife? In case you have a need for one?” Matthew asked.

“I do,” Athelstan replied. “It is stored in my bedroll. Please pray to God for me, that I don’t have to use it.”

“May God answer my prayer,” Matthew said, embracing Athelstan again.

Athelstan watched the water to see Lucian alone taking long strokes with his oars. He had travelled halfway back to Lindisfarne in the time it took Athelstan to say goodbye to his friends.

Matthew clutched Athelstan’s arm and walked to Ragnar.

“Can you tell him something for me,” Matthew asked Athelstan. “I want to make sure he understands.”

“Of course, Matthew,” Athelstan said. “What is it that you want to tell him?”

“I want to tell him to take good care of you,” Matthew said. He stared into Ragnar’s eyes and nodded while Athelstan translated his message into Norse for him, but Ragnar already understood.

Ragnar spoke back to Matthew, saying, “Of course, I will. I will guard Athelstan with my life.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Athelstan said.

“Take care, Brother Athelstan,” Finnian said, catching Athelstan’s arm as he turned from Matthew. “That’s three less mouths for us to feed here, until you return with the supplies.”

“I knew you would come up with something positive to say, Finian,” Athelstan said. He was happy when Lucian pulled the boat up to the shore. No matter what dangers might befall them while they travelled toward Newcastle in search of the king’s men, at least they would be away from Brother Finian and his incessant griping.

Ragnar walked onto the dock to meet the boat. He had done away with the leg brace after he realised the monks could find no boots that would accommodate it. He used his staff for balance as he reached for the rope that Lucian held out to him. The boat rocked up and down on the waves.

Athelstan looked at his brothers for one last time, before joining Ragnar at the dock.

“You get in first,” Athelstan told Ragnar. It would put less strain on Ragnar’s leg if he didn’t have to worry about being the last man to hop into the bobbing boat.

Athelstan took the rope from a reluctant Ragnar. He reflected on the Northman he had come to know over the past month. Sometimes Ragnar was so full of pride that he made poor decisions. Other times, Ragnar relied on Athelstan to take care of him as if he were a baby. Strangely enough, it was all part of Ragnar’s charm. His unique ways made Athelstan grateful for the day that he found him clinging to life on the desolate beach.

Athelstan knelt on the dock and used his hands to steady the boat. He was glad for the new boots that he wore, instead of taking on the challenge of the journey wearing sandals. His Lord would have worn sandals in his travels, he knew. But alas, his Lord, Jesus Christ, did not live in chilly Northumbria.

It was Ragnar who had convinced Athelstan to accept the boots that Brother Jasper had found for him. Athelstan dreaded thinking about where the boots had come from. Their sturdy leather was worn soft, but they still had plenty of sole. Athelstan was moved to tears by the knowledge that they belonged to one of his dead brothers, killed in the raid. The owner of the boots was never to be embraced by a brother’s love again, except in the kingdom of heaven. Athelstan looked at the boots on his feet and made the sign of the cross. “Thank you, brother,” he whispered, as he climbed into the tiny boat.

Brother Lucian took one oar, and Ragnar insisted on taking the other.

Athelstan wasn’t about to argue with him. Ragnar was happiest when he was being useful to Athelstan, it seemed.

Lucian and Ragnar kept their strokes even, pulling the boat away from the shore and into the cove that, on this day, remained calm. On the opposite side of the cove, the causeway stretched between Lindisfarne and the mainland. The sea swept over the sand, so it was nearly invisible at this late morning hour. 

Athelstan watched as the remaining monks on the shore began to fade into the landscape. The roof of Lindisfarne rose above the shore of the island. The men on the boat were silent. The only sounds were the splash of the oars as they dipped into the water. Lucian looked as confident as ever, his long blond hair dancing in the breeze, his muscled arms matching Ragnar’s, stride for stride. Before Athelstan lost sight of the monks who remained behind, the boat’s hull slid into the sand of the mainland.

“Welcome ashore,” Brother Benedict said, grabbing the rope line from Lucian and hauling the boat more securely onto the sand.

Lucian was the first to jump out, his feet splashing in the low surf.

“Athelstan,” Benedict said, reaching to take Athelstan’s hand. With a firm grasp, he helped Athelstan out of the boat.

Athelstan’s feet splashed down into the water. Fortunately, his dead brother’s boots were as water resistant as they were sturdy. Again, he felt that he owed his brother a debt of gratitude. He reached into the boat to take Ragnar’s staff from him.

Benedict and Lucian held the boat steady while Ragnar climbed out. He still favoured his healthy leg, which made Athelstan worry that he would not be able to keep up with their travel. He would have a word with Benedict about slowing to Ragnar’s pace, lest the men become separated on their journey.

“Safe travels,” Lucian said, embracing Benedict.

“You, too, Athelstan,” Lucian said. “And Ragnar, you look more like an Englishman now, something I had not thought possible when we first met.”

Ragnar copied Benedict and Athelstan’s action and drew Lucian into an embrace.

“Wait here for a minute,” Lucian said.

Athelstan watched Lucian reach into the boat.

“I’m leaving this here,” Lucian said. He brought forth a ram’s horn from where he had it stored in the front of the boat. He had bored a hole into the wide end of the horn, so he could tie a length of cord through it. He trudged ashore and worked to tie it securely to a tree that grew from the mainland where the sand gave way to sparse grass and a few stunted trees. “When you return to these shores, whether it be in a day’s time or a month, you can use this horn to send a signal to me at the monastery. No matter the tides, I will come and retrieve you.”

“Thank you, brother,” Athelstan said, embracing Lucian.

“Lucian,” Benedict took his turn saying goodbye.

“Thank you,” Ragnar said, some of the few words he knew were appropriate for the time.

Benedict stepped back into the gentle waves to help Lucian shove the boat off the shore and into the shallow waters off the mainland.

Lucian climbed aboard, dipped both oars into the water, and began to paddle away.

Athelstan stood with his two companions and watched as their view of Lucian disappeared against the sand of Lindisfarne. He hoped that they would find the king’s men sometime later that day. They would laugh at whatever minor inconvenience caused their delay. They would blow the ram’s horn and Lucian would come to ferry the lot of them back to the monastery where they would feast on fresh bread, dried meat, and the fruits of the earth.

“God willing,” Athelstan muttered under his breath.

~

“Are we ready?” Benedict asked, hoisting his pack onto his back.

“Nearly,” Athelstan said. He held Ragnar’s staff in one hand while he waited for Ragnar to get his pack situated.

Ragnar took care to adjust the leather straps that held the pack to his back. When Ragnar was ready, Athelstan handed Ragnar his staff.

Benedict had already begun to walk along the narrow pathway that led to the place where the causeway met the mainland. Here, the road began that would lead them to Newcastle. They would pass a few outlying villages along the way where they might get fresh food and a roof over their heads while they slept, but for most of the journey, they prepared to be alone.

“This must be strange for you, leaving your island that is not an island,” Ragnar said, stopping when his feet touched the road.

“This is strange,” Athelstan agreed. “I have only ever left the monastery to preach the word of God, never on a recognizance trip for missing men. This is all new for me.”

“There is nothing to fear about trying new things,” Ragnar said. “Some good will come of this. You will find your missing king’s men. And if the gods allow it, we will get the supplies to bring back to the monastery.”

“Come on, you two,” Benedict called. “We must get walking if we are to cover any ground before dark.”

Step, step, thump.

Step, step, thump.

The ground felt solid under Ragnar’s feet. With the help of the staff, he took two easy steps and planted the point of the staff into the ground. After a short while, he had worked up a rhythm that rivalled the beat of the drum at a solstice festival.

This was the kind of travelling that appealed to Ragnar most—the kind where he could see the long stretch of road ahead of him. Eyes watchful for enemy berserkers, who could be hiding behind the few trees that sprung from the flat land that stretched away from the sea, Ragnar kept his pace, staying a few yards ahead of Athelstan and Benedict. He did not want to give the impression that he was so weakened by his old injuries that he could not keep up with the monks.

Behind Ragnar, the monks chattered away in their native tongue. Ragnar understood some of the words and found their conversation about their God uninteresting. Give him Odin or Thor or Freyr any day. They would fight the Christian’s gods at their first opportunity. Their shield wall would withstand any powers that the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost could muster against them on the plain of battle. What Ragnar would not give to witness such a sight.

Ragnar let the scenario play out in his mind to break up the monotony of walking.

Perhaps Ragnar’s gods would allow Jesus Christ and his friends to join them in Valhalla. After all, the Jesus Christ god was a man, just like Odin. Why should he have to die after being nailed to a cross when he could enjoy the feast at Odin’s table? Who was to say what would happen if any man was invited to Valhalla? Ragnar hoped he would have to wait many years before he found out for himself.

Ragnar mulled this over as the men walked. The sparse trees became dense along the road, and low scrubby bushes took root in the soil as the men travelled further inland.

As Ragnar’s mind wandered, he slowed his pace. Despite Athelstan’s long habit and his new boots, Athelstan caught up with Ragnar, stepping on the heel of his boot as he came upon him.

“Watch out, priest,” Ragnar said. “You will not want me to trip and break my other leg.”

Athelstan smiled with the kindness in his eyes that Ragnar now knew well. Of course, he did not mean to harm Ragnar.

“He’s not a _priest_ ,” Benedict said.

Ragnar turned his head to see Benedict closing the distance between him and Athelstan.

“He is a priest, to me,” Ragnar said.

Benedict pushed past Ragnar, getting a few paces ahead.

Ragnar, caught up in the rhythm of the walking, felt like he should explain. “He takes care of those around him. He worships his God. He tells me tales of his God. He is a priest.”

“It gets aggravating,” Benedict said, turning to catch Athelstan’s eye.

“Try not to let it bother you,” Athelstan said, crossing in front of Ragnar to walk beside Benedict. “He knows no differently. I really don’t mind him calling me a priest.”

“It’s a sacrilege,” Benedict said.

Athelstan stopped in his tracks. Ragnar nearly stumbled into him. 

“Benedict, it is bothering no one,” Athelstan said, hands on his hips.

Benedict continued walking, ignoring him.

Ragnar sped up to continue walking beside Benedict. He thought about slowing down to let Athelstan catch up, but that would only make Benedict think Ragnar was bothered by his remarks. Benedict already thought of Ragnar as an inferior heathen among the noble Christians. Ragnar did not need to stop and make him argue about it, nor did he need Athelstan to fight his battles.

Ragnar continued walking, leaving a wide space between himself and Benedict.

Step, step, thud.

Step, step, thud.

Ragnar stayed on his pace.

Poor Athelstan eventually realized that neither man was going to stop to argue with him. He hurried along the dusty road to catch up.

The air rushed forward with Athelstan before he inserted his body into the emptiness between Ragnar and Benedict.

Without even turning his head, Ragnar could hear Athelstan panting to catch his breath. It could not be easy to run while wearing a habit and Ragnar respected Athelstan for giving up on his idea to make the men stop to argue with him. He hoped that Benedict would put aside his reservations about his friendship with Athelstan long enough to find the king’s men and return to Lindisfarne. The men had enough to worry about, without squabbling over the proper use of a title.

The men walked together in silence, which usually would not be a problem, except it made Ragnar’s mind race with all manner of thoughts.

What difference would it make to Benedict if he called Athelstan a priest?

In Kattegat, such altercations usually ended with one Northman missing his head. The slightest thing that disturbed these Christians seemed to escalate into a discussion, an argument, a sparring with words, when a simple swing of an axe would suffice.

A mile passed quietly, but Ragnar still had questions turning over in his mind. Finally, when he could tolerate it no longer, he turned to Athelstan and asked, “Are you my _friend?”_

Athelstan looked bemused.

Benedict snorted.

“You could call it that, if you like,” Athelstan said. “We have a friendship.”

“I am not sure,” Ragnar responded.

Maybe Athelstan was not Ragnar’s friend. But it seemed likely that he was. He cared for Ragnar’s injuries. He helped Ragnar with his English. He even read words from the Gospel of Saint John to him. In fact, he had snuck the book into his bedroll when he thought Ragnar was not looking—probably just so that he could continue reading it to him at night.

Yes, Athelstan was Ragnar’s friend, but Ragnar knew it was always wise to know the weaknesses of his friends so he could help them when necessary. And the monk seemed to have many weaknesses. Ragnar would go to work to remedy that. Maybe he would teach Athelstan to stand up for himself while they were on the road. Some sparring lessons might be warranted, if Benedict’s behaviour continued.

That night, when they made camp in a grove of trees, Athelstan pulled the Gospel of Saint John from where he had hidden it. Ragnar tried to act surprised when, after a meal of dried fish they had carried and some raspberries that they found growing along the way, Athelstan sat down with the book to read.

Athelstan crossed his legs in front of him, his long habit wrinkled from the travel of the day. The book sat open on his lap as he thumbed through the pages, looking for a good story to tell.

Ragnar moved closer to him. He crawled past the small campfire that he had made to ward off the evil beings of his world, although Athelstan said that he needed the light of the campfire to read.

Ragnar sidled up next to Athelstan, using a stout tree trunk to rest his back. His leg ached from the long journey, but it felt better when he could sit and listen to the story told by his friend.

~

“He’s not a friend, Athelstan.”

“He’s not your friend….”

The words of his brothers plagued Athelstan’s sleep.

Especially Benedict’s words. 

Now that Benedict travelled with Athelstan and Ragnar, Athelstan was swayed by his words most of all. He meant no harm with his comment about Athelstan not being a priest, but still, the altercation stung Athelstan.

Athelstan pushed Benedict’s words away and went back to his dream.

In his dreams, God kept him safe. 

God gave him dreams as if they were a gift, a compass that guided Athelstan in the Lord’s way, so his feet never faltered. Athelstan’s sleep came again, finally, a blessing from God. 

He dreamed of a better world, one where his family had not been killed by the plague that ravaged the community in Northumbria. One where his family could provide for him, without giving him up to the service of God. Athelstan’s dreams helped him to remain calm when he thought about his slaughtered brothers from Lindisfarne who now surely dwelled in the house of the Lord.

Athelstan’s dreams gave him hope.

He dreamed of Ragnar accepting that Christ was the way. In Athelstan’s dream, Ragnar followed Athelstan as if he were John the Baptist, with palms open, the water cascading down Ragnar’s shoulders, to the small of his back… rivulets that ran over the Northman’s scarred skin and taut muscle.

Unfortunately, some of what Athelstan hoped for worried him and gave him the need to pray for strength.

“He’s not a friend, Athelstan.”

Athelstan jolted awake with Benedict whispering in his ear.

Ten feet away, the campfire had gone to coals and ten feet beyond that, Ragnar lay asleep. He had wrapped himself in his bedroll to keep warm.

For his own warmth, Athelstan had draped his cloak over himself before settling back with his book. 

The bark of the tree made Athelstan’s back itch. He had fallen asleep here. He stretched his arms and yawned. When his hands hit the ground beside him, his right hand fell onto the Gospel of Saint John, laying open where he had left it.

“He’s not a friend,” Benedict whispered again.

“Why have you woken me?” Athelstan asked. “To tell me that Ragnar is not a friend?”

“He can be dangerous,” Benedict said, speaking in a hush. “This is why I offered to go on this journey. I knew you would be among the first to volunteer and that Ragnar would accompany you. You need to watch out—one never knows what a heathen will do, given the chance.”

Athelstan stretched his legs and rolled his ankles. His mind was occupied with the one thought that he would find a better place to sleep as soon as Benedict was done with his tirade of whispering his suspicions about Ragnar.

“He’s following me, because he trusts me,” Athelstan said. “We need to accept that he means us no ill.”

“But you were not there at the monastery when hell and all its devils barged through the door. You have no idea what men like Ragnar are capable of.”

“I know more than you think,” Athelstan said, clutching Brother Benedict’s arm, as if that would make him see reason.

“How can you know anything, when you were hidden away behind the altar during the worst of the raid?”

Benedict had a point. Still Athelstan could not bring himself to regret that he didn’t hide somewhere where he would have been able to witness his brothers being slaughtered or bound up and taken away to serve as slaves in some strange land. That would have been too painful for Athelstan to endure.

“I know what happened to our brothers, although I only saw the aftermath,” Athelstan said. “But Ragnar has no memory of it at all.”

Benedict seemed to think on that. He chewed on his lip while somewhere in the forest beyond where they were camped, an owl hooted into the night.

“You need to trust that Ragnar will do what is right. The Lord God, _our_ Lord God, will guide us, and so he will guide Ragnar. I am sure of it,” Athelstan said.

“I don’t like it,” Benedict said.

“You would do well to love thy neighbour,” Athelstan said. “And for now, Ragnar is our neighbour. Don’t let his mistake of calling me a _priest_ prevent you from guiding him along the path of our Lord.”

“He may be a heathen that we can teach, but he is not a friend,” Benedict repeated.

“Very well,” Athelstan said. “I hope he is able to prove you wrong. Go back to sleep.”

Athelstan had only been asleep for an hour, although his dreams had been vivid as if he had been sleeping all night. He went to the coals of the fire and sat on his haunches to warm his hands. 

On the opposite side of the fire, Ragnar slept, lightly snoring, his woollen blanket rising up and down with each breath.

It looked like Benedict fell asleep as soon as his head hit the bedroll.

Athelstan shook out his cape and went to Ragnar. He wanted to be close by, in case the Northman awakened. He laid his bedroll down, between Ragnar and the fire. Covering himself with his cape, Athelstan welcomed his dreams again.

~

“I promise you, Athelstan, I am going to try to see things his way,” Ragnar said. He knelt by the creek outside of the village of Belford.

They had walked over a ridge, high above the village, following the road ever southward toward Newcastle. Athelstan had told Ragnar it was a village, but it did not look like there were many homes in the valley. There were only three houses, as far as Ragnar could see, all with dilapidated roofs.

“Do you think we should walk down there?” Benedict asked, pointing out the damaged roof of a building.

“It looks abandoned,” Athelstan said. 

Although they could see no activity that would draw them down the overgrown path that led to the three dilapidated houses, even less promising was the fact that there were no tracks in the mud that filled the road where it intersected with the path. If anyone had come this way, it had to have been a very long time ago. It had not rained at Lindisfarne in many days, so the mud existed here when the king’s men should have passed this way. They had not made it this far on their trip to supply the monastery.

“We should keep going,” Benedict said.

“I agree with Benedict,” Ragnar said, quickly.

Athelstan gave him a questioning glance.

Ragnar knew he had that look on his face that made Athelstan doubt his sincerity. He looked away, hoping to hide his smile from Athelstan. But he knew all too well that Athelstan could tell that he was simply trying to appease Benedict by agreeing with him. Ragnar’s eyes always gave him away.

“We will continue until we reach Alnwick,” Athelstan said, pursing his lips as he looked at Ragnar.

“Alnwick is a larger town than Belford,” Ragnar said, “so you told us yesterday, when we hoped to stop in Belford.”

“I haven’t been here in a very long time,” Athelstan said. “I remember it from two years ago, when I passed this way on a journey south to London. It was early in my trip—it may have been our first stop after we left Lindisfarne, so I really don’t remember it well.”

“That is understandable,” Ragnar said. “You had many more exciting adventures on that trip. Who could be expected to remember a tiny town with only a few houses?”

Since the travellers would have to walk downhill to get to the tiny village, only to turn around and walk back up the hill, they chose to remain on the ridge where they could observe the few houses below.

From where he stood, Ragnar could look down the hill into the valley where the houses sat on the bank of a small lake. Although no smoke rose from the chimneys of the homes, no children played in the road, and no men fought with swords, the scene reminded him of Kattegat.

He wondered what had become of the people of Belford, just as he wondered what had become of the men who left him behind on the beach at Lindisfarne. Where were Athelstan’s church’s treasures now? Probably in Earl Haraldson’s burial hoard, if Ragnar guessed correctly.

“Come on,” Benedict said. “We can’t stand around here all day.”

Ragnar grabbed his staff and continued to walk down the road.

Step, step, thump.

Step, step, thump. The sound was enough to make Ragnar’s head pound, even though the blow he took had healed with the time spent in Athelstan’s care. He daydreamed again, as a way to pass the time. It was easier to stay quiet than to irritate Benedict with some quip about Athelstan being a priest. Ragnar could only imagine how infuriated Benedict would be if he told him that he thought of Athelstan as John the Baptist himself, leading Ragnar in the ways of their righteous dead God, Jesus Christ. Ragnar kept his lips sealed tight.

“How is the leg feeling today?” Athelstan asked, as he caught up to walk beside Ragnar.

“It feels better as the day goes on. It loosens up and feels less stiff,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan moved closer and spoke softly, “I appreciate what you’re doing, with regard to Benedict.”

Ragnar pretended he did not understand. “What do you mean?” he asked, his eyes flying open as if he was surprised.

That made Athelstan burst out in laughter. “You know very well what you are doing,” he said, when he caught his breath.

“No, why don’t you tell me?” Ragnar asked with a wink.

Athelstan simply shook his head. “If you don’t know that you are being on your best behaviour with him, then I shouldn’t bother pointing it out to you. You’re not even trying to do what I thought you were doing, so you don’t deserve any appreciation for it at all.”

“Now you have hurt my feelings,” Ragnar said, clutching his hand to his heart.

“What?”

“I was trying so hard… _priest._ ”

“Stop,” Athelstan said.

Ragnar only smiled, glad that once again, he was back in his friend’s good graces.

~


	6. Chapter 6

The sun was low in the sky when the men smelled the smoke from the hearth fires of Alnwick. They anticipated that they might find shelter and a hot meal in the small village. Athelstan, like Ragnar and Benedict, looked forward to stopping for the night in a place with some amenities. After the sleepless night in the wood, Athelstan relished the idea of a pallet with a soft pillow. His life of ascetic sacrifice had prepared him to embrace harsh conditions, but even he needed a good night’s sleep if he was to devote himself to God every day. 

Athelstan hurried ahead of Ragnar and Benedict. His habit stirred up the dust on the road. Although he knew it would take a good soak to get his undersmock white again, he did not care. A hot meal, a soft bed, or even a place to sleep that wasn’t in the wild open, next to a tree, would be an improvement over the previous night when Benedict’s complaints kept him from his dreams.

Despite his desire to get to the town, Athelstan had concerns about what might happen when they arrived there.

First of all, they had seen no sign of the king’s men. If the king’s men bearing supplies had departed Newcastle as they always did, what trouble did they encounter on the way to Lindisfarne? Athelstan was curious to learn the reason for their delay. He worried about what answers he might find in Alnwick.

Secondly, Athelstan worried about Ragnar. The townspeople of Alnwick were sure to notice right away that Ragnar was not an Englishman, despite his new hairstyle, which he now kept out of his face by gathering it with a strip of leather tied at his nape. Athelstan prayed that any people they might encounter would accept Ragnar as their companion. When strangers learned of the raid at Lindisfarne, Athelstan hoped they would not rail against Ragnar. Ragnar had been so helpful to Athelstan and the other monks at the monastery, surely he could be forgiven for his association with the Northmen. He barely remembered anything about them.

And thirdly, Athelstan worried that he was kidding himself about Ragnar.

The sun began to set over Alnwick. Athelstan watched the glow of hearth fires as they cast their shadows onto the dusty road. The sound of a psaltery and an accompanying singer wafted from one stone building with firelight spilling out from its windows. Athelstan approached the welcoming sound and pulled the door’s latchstring.

“Come in, brother,” the buxom tavernkeeper greeted Athelstan. “And close the door behind you to keep the warmth inside.”

Athelstan stepped into the warm room. A dozen patrons sat at two broad tables, cups filled with various levels of drink. On an elevated platform, two young women entertained the tavern-goers with instruments and song.

“Good evening, brother,” a man with a tangled beard and wrinkled eyes said. He slid down further on the bench to make room for Athelstan. He signalled the tavernkeeper, “Let me buy the brother a cup of ale, Mairi.”

Athelstan appreciated the warmth of the fire, but he did not sit. He shrugged his pack off his shoulders and left it by the door. “Apologies for declining your offer, my good man,” Athelstan said. “But my two companions are right behind me.”

“Are you a brother from Lindisfarne?” Mairi asked, shoving a cup of ale into his hand anyway. She then turned to the man with the beard and said, “No need, Jonah. We always have ale to spare for the Lord’s helpers.”

“I am from Lindisfarne,” Athelstan said. He raised his cup to Jonah just as the door opened and Benedict and Ragnar entered the tavern. So much for getting a jump on introducing the brothers’ longhaired companion.

“Come on in,” Mairi said. “There’s always room for more men of the cloth.” She ushered Benedict into the room with a hand on his shoulder. When Ragnar limped up behind Benedict, Mairi held her hand inches away from the shoulder of Ragnar’s cloak, without touching him. She squinted into his face and turned back to the bar.

Benedict unburdened himself from his load. “Athelstan, may I remind you that we have no money to pay for these accommodations,” he whispered to Athelstan alone.

“No worries, boys, I don’t mean to pry, but your money is no good here,” Mairi said. She had stepped back to the ale board where she poured an ale for Benedict which he gratefully accepted.

“You look like no monk I’ve ever seen before,” Jonah proclaimed with a nod at Ragnar.

“He’s new to Northumbria,” Athelstan said, handing Ragnar his own cup of ale and steering him away from the onlookers. He had to admit that Ragnar looked intimidating. His height, his muscular presence that was impossible to disguise in a man his size, his tangled hair, the fact that he carried a long staff… everything combined to make a fearsome sight to most Englishmen, even if Ragnar remembered nothing of fighting them. Athelstan was grateful that Ragnar’s new hair growth covered his head tattoos. Athelstan led Ragnar to the wall beside the door and helped him remove his pack from his shoulders.

“It’s probably best to leave this here,” Athelstan whispered in Norse, hoping that Mairi did not hear him speaking in a foreign tongue. He took Ragnar’s staff from him and set it by his pack.

The psaltery started up again, one woman playing the instrument with deft fingers while the other woman sang along to the tune. The tavern-goers who were closest to the entertainers pounded on the table and tapped their feet to the music. The song was nothing like what Athelstan was accustomed to hearing in the monastery, but being a man of the world, he tried to appreciate their efforts.

“I don’t suppose you have heard about the terrible raid at the monastery?” Benedict asked Mairi.

“I remember it well,” a drunken tavern-goer said. “I was a wee lad when it happened.”

“Eoin, you weren’t even born yet when the monastery was raided,” Mairi said, giving Eoin a shove.

Athelstan guessed that Eoin had too much to drink.

“No, not a raid of olden times. The monastery was raided recently by Northmen—only one month ago,” Benedict said.

“What do you mean by _raided_?” Mairi asked.

The music stopped and all eyes turned to Benedict. It hadn’t been Athelstan’s plan to let Benedict explain the situation at Lindisfarne, but here they were.

“There was a terrible storm, and with it, Northmen came ashore,” Benedict continued.

“Northmen?” Mairi asked, her eyes going to Ragnar.

“They killed Father Cuthbert,” Benedict said.

Mairi made the sign of the cross. “Poor dear Father Cuthbert, may God rest his soul,” she said weepily.

“I remember Father Cuthbert,” Jonah said. “He used to stop in Alnwick with the monks on their way to Newcastle. He often took them to meet the Bishop there.”

“That’s right, I remember stopping here a few years ago, when I travelled with Father Cuthbert to Paris,” Athelstan said. “I’m sorry to inform you that there was a terrible slaughter. Brother Benedict and I were lucky to escape with our lives. Since the king’s men, who usually arrive with supplies and news of the world, have been delayed for many days, we undertook this trip to discover what became of them.” 

“A slaughter? Are you the only two monks who escaped this terrible ordeal?” Jonah asked, eying Ragnar up and down.

Athelstan felt badly for Ragnar, who undoubtedly could not understand the conversation as its pace was too swift.

“No, Athelstan said. “There are nearly a dozen other monks back at the monastery. They are making repairs and carrying on as best they can.”

“May the Lord provide for them, and for all of us,” Mairi said, wiping a tear from her eye.

Ragnar bowed his head and said, “Amen.”

“This man is our assistant,” Athelstan said, taking Ragnar’s arm. “He recently suffered a broken leg and he does not speak much.”

The musicians began to play again. This time, they began a decidedly softer tune.

Athelstan was well aware of Benedict’s eyes on him, questioning the truth of what Athelstan told the tavern-goers. Athelstan committed himself to the belief that he was not lying when he spoke of Ragnar as their assistant. If God disagreed, Athelstan would perform an act of penance later, but now was not the time.

“We hope to travel to Newcastle, to find out what happened to the king’s men,” Athelstan said. “It seems that they haven’t passed by this way?”

“I haven’t seen them,” Mairi said. “And this is usually a stopping point for travellers who are heading to the north.”

“What about Belford?” Athelstan asked. “I remember stopping there when I travelled from the monastery before.”

“No one has lived in Belford for a long while,” Eoin chimed in.

“That’s true,” Mairi said, patting Eoin’s arm.

“The few residents were wiped out by the fever more than a year ago,” Jonah added. 

“There was a fear that the fever would spread from Belford to Alnwick, but praise be to God, it did not,” Mairi said. “No one has travelled up there for some time now. You were probably the first people to pass by since the last time the king’s men hauled in your supplies.”

“I was afraid of that,” Benedict said.

“If we had known that our neighbours were suffering, we could have gone to Belford to provide some comfort for them,” Athelstan said. It saddened him that people suffered so, only one day’s walk from Lindisfarne and the monks hadn’t known about it. If the people of Alnwick have not seen the king’s men lately, Athelstan worried about the well-being of the brothers they had left behind at Lindisfarne.

“Word doesn’t travel when you are on an island,” Jonah said. “I sometimes wonder about you boys, there all alone without any contact with the outside world for months, even years at a time. I’m sure you stay busy with your studies and with keeping up the place.”

“Illumination,” Ragnar said, a twinkle in his eye that caught the flicker from the hearth’s flames. “They illuminate the sacred texts.”

Jonah looked at Ragnar curiously.

Athelstan could not help his heart from swelling with pride over Ragnar’s ability to communicate with Jonah. And Ragnar told Jonah about illumination—something that Athelstan worked tirelessly on, in service to the Lord. Ragnar was no heathen. He was someone who appreciated the task that Athelstan loved the most in his monastic life.

“We hope to travel to Newcastle to notify the king about the missing men and the terrible events at Lindisfarne,” Benedict said. “The king will want to find out who is responsible, and he will deal with them accordingly.”

“This is most dreadful news,” Mairi said. She cupped Athelstan’s cheek with the palm of her hand, like a doting mother would do to calm her cherished child.

“We were hoping to find lodging for the night here,” Athelstan said. “Do you think you would be able to find accommodations for us?”

Mairi glanced warily at Ragnar. “Stay and sup on some stew,” she said to Athelstan. “There’s room in the barn, where you may bed down to sleep.”

“I will take my horse and leave with you in the morning,” Jonah said. “When we reach the road, I will ride out and try to reach Newcastle in a day. The same journey will take you thrice as long, especially for your friend with the limp. It’s best that we get word about the monastery and his missing men to the king as quickly as possible.”

Mairi was true to her word. After a meal of stew and dumplings, she had Eoin lead the men to the barn.

The accommodations were sparse, but Athelstan was grateful that he and his companions had been well-fed and given a warm place to sleep. He spread his cloak out on a pile of straw and settled down for the night.

Benedict chose a spot by the brazier that warmed the open barn. Along one wall, stalls where the animals slept seemed quiet except for the occasional whinny of a horse. The barn had the fresh hay smell that Athelstan remembered encountering in nearly all of his travels from the monastery. Everywhere he had gone, the townspeople offered their kindness to the brotherhood, in exchange for their blessings and their teachings.

Athelstan wondered if it was the same in Ragnar’s world. Did their people worship any differently than the brothers? Did they have holy men, who travelled from place to place, teaching the ways of their deity? Perhaps the Northmen travelled to their own holy places, like Lindisfarne, which received visitors from time to time.

The straw crunched under Athelstan’s head as he tried to get comfortable. He pulled his hood up to keep the itchy straw out of his hair.

Ragnar had taken up a position by the door. His staff at the ready, Ragnar bedded down on his own cloak across from where Athelstan slept.

Athelstan felt secure with Ragnar closest to the barn door. If anything happened… if the townspeople decided that it was not worth the trouble to offer shelter to strangers, Athelstan was confident that Ragnar could handle himself. He was the strongest of the three men who ventured out from Lindisfarne, even with his broken leg that was still weeks away from being fully healed. Athelstan would have to rely on Ragnar’s imposing stature, to thwart a threat. Despite the Northmen’s fury when they attacked the monastery, Ragnar seemed to have little knowledge of how to fight, although the opportunity for an altercation had presented itself to Ragnar many times. Finian, Benedict, Eoin, none seemed to rattle Ragnar so much that he would take action with his fists.

Having Ragnar on his side gave Athelstan some peace of mind as they travelled into the unknown. Who knew what terrible thing had befallen the king’s men, if they hadn’t yet made it to Alnwick? Perhaps the king no longer thought that the monastery was worthy of his support. Maybe he sent a messenger to tell Father Cuthbert this and the messenger was cut down. Athelstan could not stop turning the possibilities over in his mind.

Athelstan could tell that he was going to have a sleepless night.

Benedict snored nearby.

Ragnar’s gaze fell on him from across the barn. The bright blue of Ragnar’s eyes sparkled in the dimmest of firelight. Athelstan closed his eyes halfway, not wanting to let on that he had been watching Ragnar, just as Ragnar had been watching him.

Ragnar must seem like a mortal enemy to the townspeople, Athelstan mused. Imagine their surprise when Ragnar mentioned the illumination of the sacred texts to them—the absurdity brought a smile to Athelstan’s face and he fell asleep in peace.

~

When they reached the main road from the town, Jonah left them.

Ragnar watched as Jonah rode toward Newcastle, leaving the men to walk. He dug his thumbnail into the wood of his staff and didn’t take his eyes off the road until Jonah was out of sight.

“You look worried,” Athelstan said gently.

“It is nothing,” Ragnar said. There was no need to alarm Athelstan about what might come if these men from Newcastle blamed Ragnar for what had happened to the monks at the monastery or to the king’s men. With Jonah as a messenger to the king, Ragnar would find out soon enough what the response to the slaughter would be, as would Benedict and Athelstan.

Step, step, thump.

They walked along the road that now bent toward the east. Ragnar felt the warmth, strong on his skin, as they walked into the rising sun. The day was milder than the previous. It would not be so terrible if they did not reach their intended destination of Cresswell, before the sun set. The people of Alnwick had told them about the seaside caves they knew, where the travellers were sure to find shelter if they wished to stop to rest.

Step, step, thump.

The kindly tavern-keeper, Mairi, had seen fit to give them a good breakfast before they left Alnwick. She had taken a liking to Athelstan—and who could blame her? With his boyish looks and his good heart, Athelstan could have his choice among women, if not for his foolish vow of celibacy. Mairi would not let Athelstan leave without first filling his pack with two loaves of freshly-baked bread and a dozen eggs that she boiled at the hearth while the men waited.

She ladled the eggs from the steaming pot and tossed them to the men. Ragnar caught two and the shells burned his fingers before he could put them into Athelstan’s pack which he already had hoisted onto his shoulders.

They would eat well today, without the need to fish or forage for food.

The sun was high in the sky when Benedict stopped walking. “Can you smell that?” he asked as he sniffed the air.

Ragnar stopped and inhaled deeply. “It is the sea,” Ragnar said. Ragnar knew the smell of the sea as well as anything. The scent triggered his memory of Kattegat. The spirit of the seaside village ran through his veins, as it always would.

The men walked a half-mile further and the scent of salt and waves grew thicker. Soon, they passed through a dense forest of scrub before their road led uphill to a high bluff. Ragnar’s stomach growled with hunger and he wished to stop to eat a meal. They ascended to the top of the bluff that offered a view of the sea, its mighty waves crashing on the rocky shore. Beyond the bluff, looking south, a maze of stony caves rose above the sea. Ragnar thought this would be a good place to stop to eat.

Benedict pushed ahead and strode across the ledge at the bluff’s top. He rounded a corner among the outcrops of stone and disappeared from view.

Ragnar stepped onto the flat ledge, bleached white by the sun’s rays. His pack suddenly felt lighter, his mind at rest. He loosely held his staff in one hand and breathed in the welcoming sea air.

Athelstan climbed onto the ledge to stand beside him. Together, they watched the sea stretch far to the horizon. Gentle waves crashed upon the rocks below. Athelstan made the sign of the cross upon himself.

Ragnar cocked his head in curiosity. He had not realized that Athelstan made the motion to touch his forehead, his heart, and shoulders at times other than those when he was called to prayer.

Ragnar leaned into Athelstan and said, “I did not see your lips move as you recited your prayer, priest.”

A gust of wind came off the sea and blew Athelstan’s hair into his eyes. He reached up to push it away.

“I said a prayer to myself, without using my voice,” Athelstan explained.

“I have not seen you do such a thing before. Why have you done this now?”

Athelstan looked out across the sea. “God made this,” he said, turning to Ragnar. “It is beautiful. I simply wanted to acknowledge its creation and thank God for making it.”

Ragnar sighed. He wondered if Athelstan believed that God made him as well, because he, too, was beautiful, especially with his hair lashed by the wind. 

Ragnar shook the silly notion out of his head. Instead, he wanted to laugh and explain to Athelstan that Odin the Allfather and his fellow gods created the seaside that gave Athelstan such pleasure, but he thought it best not to annoy him when he seemed so peaceful and pleased with his God.

Benedict stuck his head around the corner from where he had explored. “Athelstan, come here,” he shouted and beckoned Athelstan with a wave of his arm. “I found something.”

Athelstan nodded at Ragnar and followed Benedict’s path further along the bluff.

Ragnar took one last look at the sea and followed behind Athelstan.

“What have you found?” Athelstan asked, when he reached the cave where Benedict had led them.

Ragnar cautiously stepped into the cave that sat among the rocky outcrops that overlooked the sea below. The walls were made of the same bleached white stone as the rest of the landscape beyond the bluff. Above Ragnar’s head, a damp ceiling slanted downward to the back of the cave, but beyond the first twenty feet or so, it was impossible to see, for the darkness. Near the mouth of the cave, someone had made a fire. The half-burnt logs emitted a sharp smell that competed with the familiar salty sea air.

“This must be one of those caves that we were told about,” Athelstan said.

“Other people have camped here, like the people in the tavern suggested,” Benedict said, kneeling by the burned-out fire. He held his hand over the coals to test their warmth. “It wasn’t last night, I don’t think. The coals are cold.”

Ragnar hobbled toward the light at the cave’s opening. His leg began to grow stiff if he was inactive for too long. He liked to stay in motion to prevent the muscles around the broken bone to keep from tightening up.

“What is that?” Athelstan asked, pointing at the ashes. “Ragnar, may I use your staff?”

Ragnar turned and handed his staff to Athelstan who was now crouched low by the firepit.

“It looks like wax,” Benedict said.

Athelstan poked at the ashes with Ragnar’s staff. He dug into the soot with his fingers and found a ball of red wax, the size of his thumbnail.

He held it in the palm of his hand and showed it to Benedict.

“I fear what that may be,” Benedict said, looking from the ball to Athelstan.

“What is it?” Ragnar asked.

“Of course, the seal is not visible because it has melted into a ball,” Athelstan said. He turned to Ragnar to show him the ball of wax.

“What does this mean to you?” Ragnar asked, holding the ball between his thumb and forefinger. Obviously, the monks had some idea of what it could be.

“This is King Aelle’s colour,” Benedict said.

Athelstan’s eyes met Ragnar’s. “The king seals his official documents with crimson sealing wax and a special emblem made of gold,” Athelstan said.

“You think the king’s men came this way?” Ragnar asked.

“It could be,” Benedict said, looking worried. “When the king’s men visited Lindisfarne, they always brought a message that bore the king’s seal.”

“The seal would be applied to a parchment on which the king sent a message of support. Often times, news would be included,” Athelstan said.

“News about wars and raids?” Ragnar asked.

“Not usually,” Athelstan said quietly, shaking his head. “When monks had a family, a mother and a father, or close relatives who were living, the messages would include news about their health or their harvest, or sometimes even their deaths… this was the manner that I received word about my own family’s death.”

Athelstan sounded so broken. Ragnar wanted to go to him and wrap him in his arms as he remembered the deaths of his family members. He wondered if Athelstan got the care he needed when, as a young boy, he learned the news of his family’s demise. He hoped that Athelstan’s fellow monks and Father Cuthbert offered him the same care that Ragnar wanted badly to give, if not for Benedict standing at the cave’s mouth. Benedict doubted Ragnar’s sincerity. If Ragnar embraced Athelstan, Benedict would probably think that Ragnar was trying to push Athelstan off the cliff.

“If the king’s men came this way, where are they now?” Athelstan asked.

“And why would the wax from the king’s seal be melted into a ball in a fire?” Benedict asked.

“There is probably a reasonable explanation for it,” Ragnar suggested.

“I think that someone burned the king’s message,” Athelstan said.

The unmistakable swish of an arrow slicing through the air put Ragnar on alert. Before he could process the sound, Benedict fell to the ground and writhed in pain on the cave floor. A bolt protruded from his shoulder. Fresh blood spurted from the wound, soaking the front of his habit with dark wetness.

“Benedict! What happened?” Athelstan’s eyes flew open.

“We are under attack,” Ragnar shouted.

“By who?” Athelstan asked, fear written across his face.

Ragnar hauled Benedict to his feet. 

“We need to find out,” Ragnar said, heading out of the cave.

“No,” Athelstan wailed. “We need to hide. Come back here.”

Ragnar watched in disbelief as Athelstan headed deeper into the cave.

“Do not be a fool,” Ragnar said. He reached for Athelstan’s habit as he rushed past him. He fisted the fabric of the hood and pulled Athelstan off his feet.

Athelstan landed in a heap beside the firepit.

Benedict moaned pitifully, the blood dripping onto the cave floor where Ragnar held him.

Ragnar reached a hand out to Athelstan. “Come on. We will be trapped in the cave if we do not leave it now,” he said. “This is no place to hide.”

Athelstan’s eyes were wild with terror, but he took Ragnar’s offered hand in trust.

“This way,” Ragnar said. He pulled Athelstan to his feet, let go of his hand, and bent low to retrieve his staff from the ground. How he wished that he had a shield.

With Benedict leaning heavily on him for support, Ragnar forced himself in front of Athelstan. “Stay close behind me,” he said, as he peered out of the cave’s entrance.

Ragnar looked out to the sea and stopped in his tracks. Upon the tide, a single ship floated on the water, just beyond the surf line. Its coiled rope strained against its anchorage. The red sail had been collapsed, but Ragnar knew it well enough. There was space for twenty oars, ten on each side of the boards. The oars had been brought inside the vessel now, defensive shields in their place. Above the ship’s bow, a slender dragon’s neck rose. It hovered over the water, its dragon eyes, carved into the wood, stared mockingly at Ragnar.

Something else caught Ragnar’s eye.

Beneath where Ragnar stood, a dozen Northmen climbed up the rocks toward the cave. 

Ragnar sighed. Loki was certainly having fun with him today. He wanted to prepare himself for battle, but first, he had to get his priest to safety.

“I pray to you, my Lord Jesus, save us,” Athelstan said, making the sign of the cross when the Northmen approached.

Arrows landed wide of where Ragnar stood. “Follow me,” he shouted at Athelstan. Turning toward the part of the bluff from where they came, Ragnar dragged Benedict, who was mumbling incoherently now. Athelstan followed. When they reached the ledge at the top of the bluff, Ragnar could carry Benedict no more.

“Get him to his feet and hide yourselves in the scrub,” Ragnar insisted. “Stay low.” He gripped his staff tightly.

“Where are you going?” Athelstan asked. “You need to come with us. We need to run away and hide.”

Ragnar clasped Athelstan’s shoulder and said, “Wait for me here.”

“But you can’t fight off so many of them,” Athelstan shouted. “You don’t even know how to fight!”

Ragnar tried to put Athelstan’s cries out of his mind as he leaped across the ledge to the cave where the Northmen had closed the distance between them. He guessed that the bolt that hit Benedict was a lucky shot. 

With his staff in his hands, Ragnar remembered.

He smelled the blood on the wind.

He heard the blood pounding in his ears.

His own blood sang with the fury of a berserker.

Ragnar ran into the melee, without concern for his own well-being. Whatever happened to him, to Benedict, to Athelstan, it had already been decided by the gods.

His staff came down on the head of a shaggy Northman, his shield held too low to protect him. The brains leaked out, staining the white ledge with fluid.

Ragnar had no time to think of how similar the strike was to the one that felled him at Lindisfarne and how fortunate he was to have survived. But there was little time for reminiscing. More Northmen approached.

In a battle stance, Ragnar thwarted the strike of an axe over his right shoulder.

He deflected a spear at his left, grabbing the blade and not letting go, even though his hand wept with blood. He struck the spearman with his staff and wrenched the spear free from him, ignoring the pain in his hand.

He used the spear against the next two Northmen, who must have thought that Ragnar would not be able to dispatch two men simultaneously.

They thought wrong.

With a stab and a kick to the sternum, Ragnar sent another Northmen off the ledge and into the sea. He grinned at the man’s flailing arms, just as he had done Father Cuthbert when he put his blade to his throat.

Ragnar traded his staff for a shield from the next Northman, killing him with the spear as he stole the shield out of his hand. With a shield and a spear, Ragnar went to work, doing what he did best. Odin would be proud of his son.

Ragnar dealt each Northman, one by one, a fatal blow.

He knocked a Northman down on his back and raised his borrowed shield high. He brought it down on the Northman’s neck over and over again. Ragnar felt the spray of blood on his face. When he had separated the Northman’s head from his body, he glanced around, but no more men approached.

Ragnar panted to catch his breath.

A dozen men dead, blood ran over the white rocks.

It may as well have been Lindisfarne.

~

“Benedict is dead,” Athelstan said, his voice aquiver.

He watched Ragnar descend from the ledge where he fought off the Northmen who attacked them. Were they the same Northmen who attacked Lindisfarne? Athelstan could not say. All he knew was that Benedict was dead and Ragnar had killed a dozen men, God rest all of their souls.

Athelstan made the sign of the cross, but his hands were shaking so badly that it barely made sense.

“Athelstan?” Ragnar knelt beside him in the scrubby patch of forest that shielded him from the invaders. “Are you all right?”

No, Athelstan was not all right. His brother was dead. And unlike the time when he hid behind the altar as the Northmen slaughtered the Lindisfarne monks, this time Athelstan had not turned away to hide. He had left Benedict’s body and crawled to the ledge, hoping that Ragnar was still alive. Sure that he would see Ragnar’s dead body splayed across the rocks, Athelstan was unprepared for the true sight that greeted him. 

Athelstan knew not what he would do if the Northmen had come to kill him, but it quickly became obvious that his being killed by Northmen from the ship was the least of his concerns.

He watched in horror as Ragnar dispatched man after man, without mercy.

How could this be his friend, who could end the life of so many men in a matter of moments?

“Athelstan,” Ragnar called his name and reached out to touch his cheek with the palm of his hand.

Athelstan recoiled at his touch. He scrambled backwards in the brush, littered with crunchy leaves that had dropped last autumn. He needed to get away from this man, this heathen who had killed indiscriminately and with such violence that Athelstan had only imagined in his worst nightmare since he witnessed the aftermath of the raid at Lindisfarne.

He remembered the carnage that littered the halls, the dooryard, the chapel. He feared that Ragnar remembered all of it. He feared that Ragnar had committed all of it. He had lied to Athelstan for so long.

“For how long?” Athelstan asked, his voice quiet.

Ragnar looked confused. He wiped the splatter of blood from his forehead with the back of his hand. Wincing when he realized his hand bled too, he pressed his thumb into his palm and made a fist around it.

“How long have you known that you could fight like that?” Athelstan managed to get the words out.

“I do not know,” Ragnar said. He collapsed in the leaves beside Athelstan.

Athelstan wanted nothing more than to get away from him. “You do know,” he said. “I do not believe you.”

The woods were silent. Only the distant sounds of the waves lapping the rocky shore made Athelstan remember that he was still alive. Where once he stood on the bluff admiring the beauty of God’s creation, he now recoiled in misery from the man he once knew as his friend.

“I have killed,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan turned away from Ragnar. “You’ve done more than kill,” he said. “You have mutilated, you have slaughtered.”

“In this instance, I have killed these men to protect you… and your brother.”

“You were no help to my brother,” Athelstan said, sparing a glance for Benedict, whose body lay crumpled in the leaves.

“I am sorry,” Ragnar said. “The arrow must have struck him in a place that made him lose a lot of blood. I regret that I did not kill the attackers before they could take a shot at your brother.”

“Have you always killed?” Athelstan asked. He no longer dared to look at Ragnar. What was to stop such a heathen from killing him next?

“For my whole life, I have been trained to be a farmer first, and a warrior second,” Ragnar said, wrapping his arms around his knees. He groaned as his bloody hand made contact with his trousers.

Ragnar seemed so small to Athelstan, now that he had lost his staff in the battle, now that he sat, broken, in the leaves like a child.

“A farmer? There must have been a dozen men,” Athelstan said. “Do you realize that _Thou shalt not kill_ is one of God’s commandments?”

Ragnar let out an obscene laugh.

Athelstan turned to him and glared. He could not stop shaking with both terror and fury.

Ragnar leaned against Athelstan and reached around him with one arm.

For all Athelstan knew, he would next feel the plunge of a spear into his side, but Ragnar had left his weapons up on the bluff and had come to Athelstan empty-handed. Ragnar’s arm felt warm against Athelstan’s shoulders. It was a pathetic attempt at comforting him. Athelstan felt the tears begin to fall from his eyes.

High above the ledge, a raven hovered on the updrafts from the sea.

Ragnar made hushing noises in Athelstan’s ear, in response to his tears.

“You were brave to watch,” Ragnar whispered. “I am sorry it was so frightening to you. I am glad you stayed hidden from them, so they did not find you and attack you, too. They would not have shown mercy. I would have killed a dozen more men if it meant keeping you safe.”

“Benedict is dead,” Athelstan cried.

“I know,” Ragnar said. “I have avenged him already. Although I know he did not like me, he was your brother.”

“Your attack made me remember,” Athelstan said. “I remember the raid at the monastery. I hid, but I still heard the sounds, the screams of men dying.”

“I know,” Ragnar said.

Through tear filled eyes, Athelstan watched as Ragnar reached for his hand and held it roughly while he sobbed.

“I can no longer lie to you. I was there,” Ragnar said, when Athelstan became quiet.

“You remember being there?” Athelstan asked weakly.

“I remember killing your brothers… and Father Cuthbert.…” 

Athelstan buried his head in his hands and wept. He did not need to shove Ragnar away because Ragnar had already removed his arm from around Athelstan’s shoulders.

As he wept for Father Cuthbert, for his brothers, for himself, Athelstan felt Ragnar move from where he was sitting. Ragnar shifted forward and crawled on his knees in the crunching leaves.

When he caught his breath and had no more tears to cry, Athelstan dared to open his eyes, not knowing whether Ragnar might try to kill him too. Why not? He had already killed so many men. What was one more? Athelstan believed that divine punishment would fall upon God’s chosen ones for all their grievous sins. This was surely his punishment. He would welcome death and commend himself to God, if it meant he would no longer experience the horror of what he had just learned.

Feeling Ragnar’s hands on his knees, Athelstan opened his eyes. In front of him, on the cold ground, Ragnar knelt with his head bowed.

“Athelstan,” Ragnar spoke. “You are always telling me that your God is a merciful one, are you not?”

Athelstan hated to agree. He hated to fall under Ragnar’s inescapable blue-eyed spell that belied his aggression. He wanted to rage at him, to let his fists fly against Ragnar’s heathen chest.

Instead, Athelstan only nodded.

Ragnar whispered, “Forgive me my trespasses….”

~


	7. Chapter 7

“That went well,” Ragnar muttered to himself, laying a final stone upon the hastily-dug grave. Despite the pain in his hand where the spear had sliced through the flesh, he did his best to help Athelstan bury his friend.

After Ragnar asked for forgiveness, Athelstan calmed down enough that he could finally speak again. He helped Ragnar bury Brother Benedict’s body in the woods by the bluff. Ragnar asked Athelstan to say a few words about what Brother Benedict’s passing meant to him.

With bowed heads, Ragnar listened to Athelstan as he described Benedict’s virtues. Ragnar had been wary about Benedict when he chided him for calling Athelstan a priest, but Athelstan made him sound like he was a responsible person and a devout Christian. Surely a place in heaven had been reserved for Benedict by Jesus Christ himself.

Ragnar almost suggested that they use the longship for Benedict’s little ceremony. The ship was still tethered with a rope to its anchor below the rocky caves. They could have given Benedict quite the send-off using one of the Northmen’s discarded bows and an arrow soaked in pitch.

He decided against it. Athelstan had been through enough of Ragnar’s escapades for one day already.

Ragnar had to accept that he had done the best he could in asking for Athelstan’s shaky forgiveness. If Athelstan had been less sincere, he could have pushed Ragnar off a cliff. But for now, Ragnar believed that he had been forgiven—at least a little bit.

With Benedict buried, and dead Northmen littering the bluff, it was decidedly an uninviting place to retire for the night. And so, they pushed on for a mile or more, until they reached a pine forest with soft needles scattered on the fragrant earth.

Ragnar found as many downed pine boughs as he could gather and set them against a giant tree that had fallen in a previous storm. The boughs served as a roof that covered a soft dry place to sleep.

“Did you know them?” Athelstan asked quietly, when they had finally settled down for the night.

The fire had produced the first coals, but the flames licked the green branches into a smoky haze. Ragnar could feel that Athelstan still was cold. Their hips pressed together as they sat in the entrance of the makeshift lean-to. The chill seeped through Athelstan’s habit and onto Ragnar’s Lindisfarne garb and into his bones.

“The Northmen?” Ragnar asked. But as soon as he spoke, he wished he had not, because who else could Athelstan be asking about? “They did not look like anyone I knew.”

Athelstan’s eyes opened wide.

The fire crackled and a puff of smoke rose into the night air.

“I just thought….” 

“You thought that since they were Northmen, I would know them,” Ragnar said. He stretched out his injured leg. “I do not know all Northmen, any more than you could know all Englishmen.”

“It was a foolish question,” Athelstan said, shaking his head. “I just figured, with the ship and their clothing, you might know them.”

“I remember the ship that took me across the sea to you,” Ragnar said, running a hand through his hair.

“Was it the same ship that we saw anchored in the surf?” 

“No, not the same, but very similar. Perhaps it shared the same shipbuilder.”

Athelstan poked at the fire with a stick.

“These are troubling times for Englishmen, I fear, and for myself,” Ragnar said.

“Why should they be troubling for you?” Athelstan asked.

“Because I am your guardian now,” Ragnar said. “If my ship was able to sail here to raid, and now this other ship was also able to sail here to raid against the king’s men, your people may be in great danger.”

“You are not responsible for guarding me,” Athelstan said with a clenched jaw. “The Lord is my guardian.”

Ragnar tried to hold his tongue, but he could not.

“I saw the fear in your eyes when we were under attack,” Ragnar said. “You need all the guardians that you can get.”

Athelstan huffed out a breath.

Ragnar took it as acceptance.

“I think it would be a good idea for you to learn to defend yourself, instead of running away,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan turned his head and looked at Ragnar with a knitted brow.

The firelight shined in Athelstan’s eyes. How had Ragnar never noticed before how blue they were—not the same icy blue as his own, but deep blue like a fjord in autumn before the water froze into the white ice of winter.

“I’m relieved you have no weapon. I can’t decide whether you want to kill me or whether you want to teach me,” Athelstan said.

If only he knew that Ragnar had the same question on his mind, even though he had already been forgiven for so much.

“I could teach you to wield a staff as I did against the Northmen today,” Ragnar said. “At least it would give you a chance to defeat an enemy if your God and I were not around to protect you.”

That earned Ragnar a grin.

“You know,” Ragnar said, struggling for the words. It was not the right place or the right time, but he had to make Athelstan know how he felt. “When my men and I raided Lindisfarne, I was angry at you.”

“Angry at me?” Athelstan asked, leaning away from Ragnar. “How could you be angry at me? I did nothing to incite your anger.”

Ragnar felt the coolness slide between them and he was not willing to accept that Athelstan had moved away, leaving him without any contact.

“Hear me,” Ragnar said. He stretched back to remove one arm out of his cloak that he had donned in the evening chill.

“What?” Athelstan asked, looking at the cloak.

“You are cold,” Ragnar said. He removed his cloak completely and shook it out in front of the fire. He then swung it behind them, so it covered both his and Athelstan’s shoulders. “This will keep you warm.”

Athelstan relaxed beside him again. It was a small victory for Ragnar.

“I was angry because it was so easy to take what we wanted from Lindisfarne,” Ragnar said. “Your gold, your treasures, your lives, you did not put up a fight. It was like taking things from a baby.”

“We are not trained to fight.” Athelstan said. “We could only hide and pray that God would protect us.”

“And that’s what made me angry—that your God left you with no defences against us. What kind of God, what kind of leaders, would leave their men without the skill to protect their lives?”

“I hadn’t really thought of it that way before,” Athelstan said. “There was never a reason to believe that someone would dare attack a monastery.”

“And you will not think in such a way again, believing that your God would protect you against axes and spears. I will not hear of it.”

“But—”

“No,” Ragnar said, laying a finger across Athelstan’s lips. “Say no more, priest.”

Athelstan smiled against Ragnar’s finger. Ragnar trailed his thumb over Athelstan’s bottom lip. It was softer and plumper than Lagertha’s when she was a young maiden.

Ragnar tore his eyes away from Athelstan and returned his hands to himself. He was relieved that it was a windless night, or the smoke from the fire would have blown into their little shelter, forcing them further apart. 

“Were you really a farmer?” Athelstan asked, leaning forward to lay another punky log onto the fire. “It’s hard to tell when I’ve seen you covered in the blood of the men you’ve slain.”

“Yes, I was a farmer,” Ragnar said, coughing from the new smoke. “I had a garden that grew more vegetables than I could eat in a year. I once lived with a woman and two beautiful children who helped with the farming.”

“I… I did not realise that,” Athelstan said. “This _woman_ , does she know that you are here? That you sailed to England?”

“She is a self-sufficient woman. I am sure that she will be fine without me.”

“But she must miss you,” Athelstan said. “She must wonder what became of you.”

“She will be relieved that I am gone. We fought constantly. She gave me most of the scars you see on me. Look here,” Ragnar said, pointing to a small scar that he knew to be on his nose.

Athelstan turned to look where Ragnar pointed.

Ragnar’s breath caught in his throat when he found himself under Athelstan’s scrutiny. He watched Athelstan’s eyes rove over his face.

“Did she break your nose?” Athelstan asked.

“I could not breathe for a month,” Ragnar said, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“You probably deserved it,” Athelstan said with a laugh.

“She left me for my brother,” Ragnar said. 

Athelstan’s mouth fell open.

Ragnar looked away. 

“I’m sorry,” Athelstan said. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

“The children, Bjorn and Gyda, I would like to see them again someday.”

“Oh, you will,” Athelstan said, clasping his hands together. “I will pray that it happens.”

Ragnar wondered if Athelstan’s God would come through for him. If he never returned to Kattegat again, he could rest with the knowledge that Rollo would take care of his family.

“Are you sure that you are not just trying to get rid of me?” Ragnar asked, turning to face Athelstan. “Trying to send me back to Kattegat?”

“I know you don’t believe me, but I promise you that I will do whatever I can so that you will see your children again.”

Ragnar stretched his legs, so his feet were closer to the fire’s warmth. “I never said that they were _my_ children.”

It took several moments for the reality to dawn on Athelstan.

“Ahh…” Athelstan said, a wave of understanding coming over him. “Your brother, then?”

“Hmmm…” Ragnar hummed.

And then, because Athelstan seemingly had no intention of convincing Ragnar to stay in Northumbria, Ragnar added, “You are a good person, Athelstan. But you are a terrible fighter.”

Perhaps there was something Ragnar could teach Athelstan, after all.

~

Athelstan rolled on the ground, his feet caught in his habit. He had landed hard on his elbow, but he wasn’t going to give up that easily. Crawling to his knees, he lifted his staff a few inches and swept the ground with it, making Ragnar leap over the stout stick. He had hoped to trip Ragnar, but he moved too slowly.

“Next time, Northman,” Athelstan muttered.

“Nice try, priest,” Ragnar said. He stood, taunting Athelstan by beating his palms against his chest.

Athelstan got to his feet and wielded his staff again. He watched for Ragnar to move against him while trying to keep a manageable distance between them. He couldn’t decide whether to concentrate on Ragnar’s feet, his hands, or his eyes. His eyes might foretell his next movement to him if Athelstan was a fearsome warrior, but for now Ragnar’s mirth-filled eyes only made Athelstan want to laugh. 

Athelstan danced across the forest floor, seeing an opening. He closed his eyes as he brought the staff down on Ragnar’s head with all of his might. He knew it was a mistake as soon as he did it. The staff missed its mark and Ragnar wrenched the staff from Athelstan’s hands, holding it high above his head and out of Athelstan’s reach.

For a man with a half-healed broken leg and a fresh gash across the palm of his hand, Ragnar moved as swiftly as a deer to avoid Athelstan’s attacks. 

“I’m not giving up,” Athelstan shouted. He jumped up to reach the staff.

Ragnar let go at the exact moment that Athelstan’s hands wrapped around the stick.

Athelstan crashed down to the ground, his makeshift weapon landing on top of him.

Ragnar collapsed, laughing, onto the ground next to Athelstan.

Athelstan had the wind knocked out of him, but there was still time to catch Ragnar off-guard and make a move. He rolled onto his side and held the staff in a wide grip with his hands. Pushing off the ground with his feet, Athelstan screamed wildly and crashed onto Ragnar with his full weight, the staff landing across Ragnar’s neck.

Athelstan sat astride Ragnar’s chest, his habit rucked up between his legs. He watched as Ragnar’s face turned red, his eyes bulging wide as he gasped for breath.

Ragnar’s hands slapped in vain and he tried to take the staff from Athelstan.

Athelstan kept applying pressure, not willing to lose to Ragnar again in a sparring battle.

The thought that Ragnar was being overly dramatic crossed Athelstan’s mind. It seemed just the kind of thing Ragnar would do to get the upper hand, but his gasping and struggling eventually made Athelstan take pity on him. He leaned back and took the staff from where he had held it against Ragnar’s throat.

“I’m sorry,” Athelstan said. “Are you hurt?”

Athelstan should have known better. 

Ragnar’s face broke into a wide grin, his eyes laughing at Athelstan above him.

In an instant, Ragnar threw Athelstan off and sprang to his feet.

“No!” Athelstan cried, knowing he had been tricked. He landed flat on his back. His feet scrambled for purchase in the fallen leaves as he reached for the staff and came up short.

Ragnar grabbed the staff from where it landed and threw it aside while Athelstan rolled and got onto his knees. Without any weapon, besides his strength, Ragnar took Athelstan’s arm and dragged him back onto the ground. Ragnar landed in a heap on top of him.

“Mercy,” Athelstan cried, panting as Ragnar climbed atop him to sit on his chest, raising his hands in victory. Athelstan jabbed at Ragnar’s thighs with his elbows, but it was no use.

“I’ll show you mercy,” Ragnar said slyly.

“I can’t breathe,” Athelstan laughed. “I was merciful to you.”

Ragnar reached for one of Athelstan’s wrists, and then the other. He next took both Athelstan’s wrists in one large hand and forced them over his head.

Athelstan howled as his arms were wrenched back, his fingers digging into Ragnar’s skin and only finding the damp dirt where his hands landed on the ground above his head.

“Let me go,” Athelstan shouted. He hoped there were no more Northmen coming to raid, because his yelling surely would have given their position away.

Ragnar lay heavily on top of him, the weight of him pressing Athelstan down into the leaves and detritus of the forest floor.

Athelstan couldn’t catch his breath to shout again. He felt like his ribs were being crushed. He thought he’d try to kick himself free, but kicking his legs did no good, since his filthy habit trapped him further beneath Ragnar.

“Never trust your opponent to show you mercy,” Ragnar said, shaking his head, his blue eyes gleaming with delight. “It will not end well for you.”

For all that Athelstan had endured over the past month, he could very well have feared for his life. But here he was, fighting against his Northman friend, who had both slain his brothers and sworn to protect him from harm. Athelstan could not imagine a stranger turn of events had he read it in the Gospel of Saint John.

“Get off me, you heathen,” Athelstan shouted.

Ragnar held on tight to Athelstan’s wrists. With his other hand, he cupped Athelstan’s chin.

Athelstan knew that Ragnar would have no respect for him if he could not work his way free, so Athelstan squirmed and kicked and tried to manage enough fury to free his hands.

“Your God will not save you now,” Ragnar said, his mouth only an inch from Athelstan’s.

Athelstan stopped resisting and gathered his wits. He tried a different strategy, but bucking his hips with his arms trapped above his head had a different effect on Athelstan.

As he canted his hips upward, everything in the forest went silent. Athelstan felt like he had been immersed in a pool of warm water. He felt a glowing spark of warmth rush down his spine. Athelstan did not know whether it was his sensitive hands, trapped in Ragnar’s calloused grasp with Ragnar’s other hand cupping his chin, or the weight of Ragnar’s body pinning him immobile, that brought the feeling on. He lifted his hips from the ground again and decided it wasn’t his imagination the first time he felt the spark of forbidden arousal.

Athelstan had felt such a spark in his dreams sometimes. He would wake up with a slick patch of moisture darkening his sheets and the need to fall to his knees and beg for God to purge his sin from his thoughts, his mind, his body. But this spark, in the presence of another person, was new and terrifying to him.

Athelstan felt his face flush with heat.

Ragnar didn’t know. He couldn’t know.

Athelstan remained still, not daring to move again, lest his cock harden further and Ragnar and all the world know of his sin.

Athelstan worried that his face had turned red with embarrassment. He could make the excuse that the exertion of their sparring might have the same effect.

Couldn’t he?

Before he could decide whether to lie, Ragnar gave up his position and fell beside Athelstan.

“You’ve exhausted me, priest,” Ragnar said. His breath was ragged in Athelstan’s ear, but at least Athelstan could breathe again.

Athelstan could still feel Ragnar against him, as they lay shoulder to knee beside each other. Ragnar’s cock was unmistakably hard, pressing into Athelstan’s thigh.

Athelstan knew he had to ignore it. To acknowledge it would be to burn in the flames of hell.

Besides, it made no sense to Athelstan.

Athelstan knew the mechanics of how a man and a woman copulated. Brother Colin was expelled from the monastery because he had in his possession a parchment depicting drawings of such acts that he shared with the other monks by candlelight when he thought Father Cuthbert was asleep.

Ragnar could not feel this way about Athelstan. It was impossible. He had a woman, a wife, children, whether or not he had fathered them. He simply could not be aroused by another man.

Athelstan needed to say something… anything. “At least I’ve exhausted you, and you didn’t kill me,” he said, feebly.

With Ragnar’s lips on his neck, Athelstan felt Ragnar inhale deeply before pushing himself up on one elbow. Beneath Ragnar’s gaze, Athelstan wanted to close his eyes, but he could not. There was a moment when he thought Ragnar might kiss him, but it was impossible for Athelstan to conceive that Ragnar would kiss a man. Athelstan feared that Ragnar felt the same spark of sinful lust that made Athelstan’s cock grow hard and made his mind feel like he had been lured by the devil. Ragnar probably wouldn’t even bother to pray to his heathen gods that the feeling would leave him alone and free him from committing such a mortal sin.

Before Athelstan was able to beg God silently for forgiveness, the moment was over.

Ragnar reached over and pulled a stray leaf out of Athelstan’s hair.

Athelstan bit his lip and then the weight of Ragnar beside him lifted.

Ragnar stood and offered a hand to Athelstan, helping him onto his feet. 

The same spark of arousal rode Athelstan’s spine as their hands touched. He pulled his hand away quickly, lest he be burned with the sin of lust again.

~

Under the forest canopy, the rocks glowed. The tiny flecks of bright mica caught the sun that streamed through the leafy trees. Ragnar was grateful for the pleasant weather.

Ragnar and Athelstan stopped in a clearing to eat the last of Mairi’s eggs. The air was fragrant with pine needles and the occasional salty breeze from the sea. Ragnar dug into his pack and removed his cloak, which was too hot to wear while walking in the heat of the day. He spread it on the forest floor to give him and Athelstan some cushioning from the ground while they ate.

Athelstan looked like a ragamuffin with his rumpled habit that was torn and dirtied from their sparring. Ragnar suspected Father Cuthbert didn’t allow such antics when he travelled with the monks from town to town spreading the word of God.

If Athelstan’s appearance was any indication, he had given up on emulating his Lord and Saviour for good. Ragnar remembered the images of the Christ God that he had seen in the monastery. Haloed and wearing clean garments, Jesus Christ looked very different from Athelstan.

Ragnar peeled the shell from an egg and popped it whole into his mouth.

Athelstan made himself comfortable on Ragnar’s cloak. He reclined back, folding his arms behind his head. After fidgeting to get comfortable, he bent one knee and crossed his other leg over it. His habit and tattered trousers slid up to reveal his hairy legs above where his boots met his ankles. The sun struck Athelstan’s face at the exact angle to make him squint against it. Giving up on keeping the sun out of his eyes, he raised a hand to shield them from its rays.

“Toss me one of those eggs, if we have any more,” Athelstan said.

Ragnar rummaged around in the pack and brought out another egg.

“Do you want me to peel it for you, as well?” Ragnar asked.

“That isn’t necessary,” Athelstan said.

Ragnar tossed him the egg, which took Athelstan both hands to catch.

“Thank you, God, for this delicious food,” Athelstan said, crossing himself.

“And for Mairi the tavern wench who cooked them for us,” Ragnar said.

“And for Mairi the tavern wench,” Athelstan said as he tapped the egg on the mica-lit rock to break its shell.

“I cannot believe you repeated that,” Ragnar said.

“What?” Athelstan asked, picking the shell from his egg. “Even tavern wenches need God’s blessing.”

Not for the first time, Ragnar thought that Athelstan’s company was a better treasure than all the loot that the Northmen had raided from Lindisfarne.

“Jonah must have reached Newcastle by now,” Athelstan said.

“The king has been informed about his missing men, then,” Ragnar said. “It will not be long before they ride north.”

“You’re worried?” Athelstan asked.

Ragnar dug another egg from the pack. He crawled across the ground to where Athelstan lay.

“They will blame me,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan looked up from his egg.

“They will think I killed the king’s men.”

“But how could you, when you were at Lindisfarne?”

“I know that if such a thing occurred in Kattegat, the earl there would believe me to be at fault.”

“You’ve been treated unfairly, then,” Athelstan said, more of a statement than a question.

“My earl… he and I did not see eye to eye very often.”

“I’m sorry,” Athelstan said. “I’ve often sided with those who have been treated unfairly.”

Ragnar thought Athelstan was going to go on and on about his Christ God, as he always did when his voice took on a certain tone. He gave in to its lure and flopped on his back atop his cloak beside Athelstan.

“The poor… the sick… those in need of care…” Athelstan continued.

“Lucky me,” Ragnar said, reaching for Athelstan’s hand.

Athelstan went with the motion and rested his hand on Ragnar’s chest.

“If you tell them the truth, they will not hurt you,” Athelstan said.

“But if I tell them the truth about why I was at Lindisfarne, they will do more than hurt me,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan tapped his palm on Ragnar’s chest.

“You remember the raiding there, the killing… but know now that Jesus Christ has died for your sins so that you may be forgiven and welcomed into the kingdom of heaven. It is what I believe,” Athelstan said.

“I don’t think all Christians are like you, Athelstan,” Ragnar said.

Perhaps it were true. If Athelstan could truly forgive him, and he could see reason for the king’s men to forgive him, Ragnar should not feel so riddled with guilt.

Athelstan’s peaceful nature made Ragnar put his worries aside. Athelstan believed that his God was one who offered mercy instead of punishment. Odin would have dashed Ragnar’s ship upon the rocky shore and forbade him from entering Valhalla if he were half as angry as the Christ God had reason to be with Ragnar.

Athelstan’s hand was warm against Ragnar’s chest. It soothed him, comforted him, and told him that all would be well, even if Ragnar was sceptical.

Ragnar watched Athelstan finish eating his egg. Athelstan wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his habit and closed his eyes against the sun. Ragnar loosened his hold on Athelstan’s hand, but he did not let go.

What Ragnar wouldn’t give to spear his fingers through the monk’s curly hair and draw him closer. To plunder his mouth with his sinful heathen tongue. 

Ragnar had been with a few men in Kattegat. It was a rite of passage that the young raiders would play games with each other, swimming naked in the fjords, sleeping in a heap of young male flesh in the longhouses when they went on a summer hunt or to Uppsala, if it was the ninth year of their journey into manhood. Ragnar doubted Athelstan experienced such things. His God was too keen on forbidding this and forbidding that. Although there was something good to be said for the dispensation of his God’s mercy.

Ragnar tilted his head to look better at Athelstan where he lay. His eyes were still closed and Ragnar believed that he had fallen asleep. Just as well, Ragnar thought. The poor monk would be mortified if he knew the feelings that ran through Ragnar’s fingertips as their hands were clasped on his chest.

All these thoughts about his cock and what he would like to do to Athelstan, made Ragnar decide that he needed to piss, lest he act on his forbidden feelings and lose Athelstan’s friendship forever.

Ragnar pried his hand free from Athelstan’s. A light snore emerged from him. Ragnar smiled as he relinquished Athelstan’s hand to him, laying it on his chest while he slept. Athelstan’s eyes stayed shut, his lashes spread across his cheeks like an angel that slept in the stories he had read to Ragnar from the Gospel of Saint John.

Ragnar got to his feet and walked to the edge of the clearing. The forest was decorated in all the colours of summer, blue wildflowers, green leaves, some yellowing with the threat of an early autumn. Ragnar freed himself and pissed into the woods. Before he finished, something caught his eye. In contrast to the greens and blues and splashes of yellow that marked the forested landscape, the bright crimson stood out. He was reminded of the time when he was injured during a particularly brutal sparring session with Rollo. His brother had hit him in the back with the shaft of an axe. Ragnar had pissed blood for a week and he could barely stand each morning when he woke.

Ragnar closed his trousers and walked deeper into the forest to investigate.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ragnar watched Athelstan rise from where he had slept.

Athelstan yawned and scratched his head.

“Come here,” Ragnar said, motioning to Athelstan with his hand. “I think I have found something.”

Ragnar stepped closer to the crimson that had his attention.

“What is it?” Athelstan asked, striding up to Ragnar.

“There,” Ragnar said, pointing to the crimson cloth.

“I see bones,” Athelstan said.

And he was right. Ragnar took a few more steps and saw what Athelstan had first noticed.

“Is it what I think it is?” Ragnar asked. He lifted the crimson fabric from among the leaves.

“Is it the king’s men?” Athelstan asked, his eyes wide. “What else could it be?”

The bones had been picked clean by the animals that roamed this way. Wolves, ravens, wild dogs, all scavenging animals would have gotten a taste of the men as they lay dead. Ragnar picked up a skull that had the unmistakable split of an axe across the back of it. Blood stained the bone. 

“This fabric is the same colour as the king’s seal, is it not?” Ragnar asked, picking at a piece of fabric that was stuck to the skull.

“It must be them,” Athelstan agreed, making the sign of the cross. “They died here.”

“It would appear that they were killed here.”

“But what about the supplies they carried for the monastery?”

“Do you think they fed the group of Northmen that I killed yesterday?” Ragnar asked.

“They landed near here, killed the king’s men and sustained themselves with the spoils,” Athelstan said, nodding his head.

“And when they were sated, they travelled north in their ship, looking to pillage again,” Ragnar said.

“This new group of Northmen,” Athelstan said, “they must have planned to continue raiding their way up the coast.”

“It was the only explanation for why they encountered them further up the shore. “We ended their raiding when they reached us.”

 _“We_ didn’t stop them, _you_ did,” Athelstan insisted.

“You helped,” Ragnar said, knowing that if not for him being driven into action to protect Athelstan, there might have been a different outcome. “A little.”

Athelstan shrugged. “If they weren’t stopped, they would have made it all the way to Lindisfarne,” he said, kneeling at the bones. “Lindisfarne would have been raided again.”

“That’s what the Northmen do,” Ragnar said, knowingly.

“Then you’ve saved my remaining brothers, by dispatching these Northmen who committed this atrocious act,” Athelstan said, waving his hand over the remains. “You’ve saved their lives.”

Ragnar needed all the credit he could get if he was to avoid the wrath of the king when it was discovered that he had led the raid against the monastery.

“Just wait until you can tell Brother Finian that,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan stood, meeting Ragnar toe to toe. He said, “In another week’s time, Finian will be as fond of you as I am.”

~


	8. Chapter 8

Athelstan was a mess. His habit was torn to shreds. He hadn’t eaten since he and Ragnar stopped for lunch and discovered what became of the king’s men. When he scratched his head, his fingers met the unfamiliar spikes of stubble from not maintaining his tonsure. Now the sun was setting on another day.

He hoped that they could make it to the village of Burradon for the night. But between Ragnar’s hobbling on his healing leg and Athelstan taking time to give the remains of the king’s men a proper Christian burial, they would be lucky to reach the village before midnight.

“Midnight?” Ragnar asked, stopping mid-stride. “Are you sure you are not exaggerating?”

Athelstan snorted. He wished that the miles would pass more quickly. He needed a wash. And a pint of ale would go a long way toward soothing his tired feet. He hoped that Burradon would be as welcoming to them as Alnwick had been.

Finding the remains of the king’s men had been a revelation to Athelstan. It explained why the supplies to Lindisfarne did not arrive and it answered questions about the Northmen that Ragnar had defeated at the shore. At least Athelstan now had that knowledge—and he could share it with the brothers when he returned to the monastery.

“Just a little further,” Ragnar said, as they followed the moonlit road. “We will find a warm place to stay for the night.”

“It’s not the warmth I crave,” Athelstan said. “It’s a bucket of water and a cask of soap.”

“Nonsense,” Ragnar said, sidling up to him and inhaling his scent off his neck. “You smell as fresh as a Northman after a battle.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

Athelstan appreciated Ragnar’s encouragement during the darkest moments of their journey. Where Athelstan always had God on his side to guide him through troubles, now he also had Ragnar. He hated to think of what would happen if Ragnar were lost to him.

After much too long on their feet for Athelstan’s liking, the men came upon a dilapidated barn near the outskirts of Burradon. The last rays of sun had streaked the night sky with shades of purple. A half-moon rose into the sky.

Ragnar tentatively swung the barn door open. No animals ran for the exit. No farmer raged at them for entering his property. It was as ordinary a barn as it could be. It was no tavern, but Athelstan was pleased to call it home for the night.

“Shouldn’t we ask the farmer if we can stay here?” Athelstan asked.

“I have been a farmer, in my life before I came to Northumbria,” Ragnar said. “Tell me, Athelstan, if you were a farmer, would you wish for strange men to awaken you in the night to ask if they could sleep with your animals in the barn?”

Somewhere in the dim barn, a goat bleated.

“I suppose not?” Athelstan asked. “I don’t know, I have never been a farmer.”

“You have made my point, exactly,” Ragnar said.

“And now, I present you with the object of your heart’s desire.”

Athelstan bit his lip. Ragnar could not possibly know the truth about Athelstan’s heart’s desire. Athelstan didn’t seem convinced that he knew, himself, although the spark of lust that the devil sent to him every time he touched Ragnar tried to convince him otherwise. 

“What is your heart’s desire, priest?”

Athelstan’s heart beat so loudly that he was sure Ragnar could hear it too. His palms felt clammy and hot. His tongue could not form the words he wanted to say.

“Is it sleeping in a barn like your Baby Jesus God did when he was an infant?” Ragnar asked.

Athelstan had to laugh. He was grateful that the moonlight that slid through the barn window did not cast a lot of light. He gave a little sigh of relief at Ragnar’s foolish suggestion. He truly thought it would be something even more sinful.

“No, perhaps not,” Ragnar offered.

No, although sleeping in a barn was acceptable to Athelstan, he could think of many more wonderful things about Ragnar to preoccupy his mind than a pillow and a bed of hay. Still, his exhaustion was bone-deep.

“Sit down,” Ragnar said. 

Athelstan’s eyes had not fully adjusted to the dim light in the barn. He felt Ragnar take his wrist and guide him to a pile of hay that was stout enough for him to sit upon.

“Sit here and wait,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan collapsed into the pile of hay. It felt good to finally be off his feet.

“And this is what I want to give to you tonight,” Ragnar said. “Your heart’s desire. Can you see?”

“No,” Athelstan said, and although he could not see clearly, he trusted that Ragnar had the best of intentions.

“Hold out your hand,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan did as he was asked.

Ragnar grasped his wrist and dipped his fingers into a bucket of water.

Athelstan laughed. “That is what you deem to be my heart’s desire?”

“Some fresh water,” Ragnar said. “What is wrong? Did you not say you would do anything for some water to wash with? And here it is. The gods have provided.”

Athelstan shook his head. Ragnar was too much. Too much of a warrior, too much of a farmer, too much of a companion for Athelstan’s travels.

Since it was dark enough in the barn that Athelstan did not need to concern himself with modesty, he stripped off his habit, including his undersmock. He tossed them into the pile of hay and cupped his hands into the bucket of cool water. He drank down as much as he could, without regard for what kind of farm animals may have dipped their tongues into the water to get a drink. He then splashed the water over himself, pulling palmfuls into his hair, across his shoulders, down his chest. The water dripped into the waistband of his trousers. 

Somewhere in the dark, Ragnar’s watchful eyes took in the scene.

“When you are finished, I would like my turn,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan drew one more handful of water from the bucket and splashed it onto his face.

“The remainder is yours,” Athelstan said, finding Ragnar in the dark and handing him the bucket.

“Thank you so much,” Ragnar said. “It cannot be easy to give up your heart’s desire.”

Athelstan used his filthy habit to wipe the water from his face. He could hear Ragnar washing himself in the dark as he dug into his pack for his cloak to lie on.

Ragnar groaned as he splashed the water onto himself and drank his fill from the bucket.

Athelstan spread his cloak on top of the hay, making himself a comfortable bed in the barn. He imagined Ragnar was right about this being like the manger where his Lord Jesus was born. It had been days since Athelstan properly prayed at the appointed times. He settled onto the cloak, droplets of water dripping down his bare back. He clasped his hands and whispered, “Dear God in heaven, who gave us his only son to take away our sins, please give our departed Brother Benedict a place at your table and please protect Ragnar and me from the angry farmer who will greet us in the morning. We thank you for the gift of fresh water—”

“I don’t know if it was fresh,” Ragnar whispered.

Athelstan grinned.

“And we pray for some food to sustain us when we venture to Newcastle tomorrow.”

“We still have some bread,” Ragnar whispered.

How could Athelstan ask for anything more?

Ragnar sank into the hay beside him. He had dragged his cloak over to the straw, and with it, he brought a half loaf of bread that Mairi had lovingly packed for them to share.

“Did you use all the water?” Athelstan asked, sitting up straight.

“No, it is right here,” Ragnar said, tapping the bucket.

“A feast,” Athelstan said with a sigh.

Ragnar broke the bread in half and handed a piece to Athelstan.

“Thank you,” Athelstan said, taking a bite.

“It will be good to rest,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan felt Ragnar flop down on his cloak. 

The barn was dark, except for the sliver of light from the moon. 

Athelstan swallowed the bread and washed it down with a gulp of water from the bucket. It tasted finer than any ale he had ever drank.

“You know,” Athelstan said as he sat back to arrange his cloak beneath him. “As a monk, I learned to appreciate the seemingly insignificant things in life, like water and a piece of stale bread.”

Ragnar shifted his position beside him. He had propped himself up on one elbow.

“People who must work hard for what they need always seem to appreciate it more,” Ragnar said. “I am glad I could help to provide you with what you wanted.”

“Something as simple as water, can make a difference in improving any situation,” Athelstan said.

“And your mood,” Ragnar said. “I am a bit like that John fellow you told me about.”

“John the Baptist?”

“Yes, John the Baptist, who went around providing water for people.”

Athelstan shook his head. Ragnar’s interpretation of the stories he had read to him from the Gospel of Saint John had a life of their own. 

“He didn’t provide water,” Athelstan said. “He helped sinners repent from sin and commit their lives to God.”

“And he did it all with a splash of water upon their sinful souls,” Ragnar said, dipping his fingers into the bucket and flicking the water at Athelstan.

Athelstan wiped a drop of water from his cheek. His eyes had adjusted to the dim light of the barn. A half-naked Ragnar sprinkling water on him was doing little to absolve him of his sins.

“Does this mean that you will call me _John_ from now on?” Ragnar asked.

Athelstan laughed and shook his head. He became acutely aware of his nakedness. Although the monks lived in close quarters, nudity was frowned upon. Athelstan felt exposed, as if Ragnar could see the sinfulness emerging from his very pores, although he was sure Ragnar could not see much of anything at all in the dark.

Athelstan hopped off his cloak and searched the straw for his habit. He held it up and figured which part was the bottom. It was not difficult because the tattered fabric was closest to the hem. He grabbed the cloth with both fists and tore along one slash where the habit had been caught on a branch earlier in the day.

“What are you doing?” Ragnar asked.

“Making my habit into a tunic,” Athelstan said. “It’s not befitting of a monk to be dressed in such a soiled garment.”

With a bit more tearing, he had shortened the habit into a simple tunic with a frayed hem.

“This will have to do,” Athelstan said, sliding his arms into the newly-fashioned garment.

“Are you cold?” Ragnar asked.

“A little,” Athelstan said. He was more modest than he was cold, but he did not feel as though he needed to confess that to Ragnar.

“My hair is hot on my back,” Ragnar said. “I am still not accustomed to being without my braids.”

The night when Athelstan helped Ragnar clean himself and untie the mess of his hair seemed so long ago. Athelstan imagined that he felt the same way at the loss of his habit as Ragnar did at the loss of his braids. “Do you want your hair braided again?” Athelstan asked.

Ragnar let out a sigh. “You saw how difficult it was to fight with my hair flying into my eyes,” he said. “It could be dangerous, to have such free hair.”

“We could cut it,” Athelstan said, sitting back on the cloak.

“Yes,” Ragnar said. “We could cut it like yours and no one would recognize me as anything but a monk from Lindisfarne.”

The thought of Ragnar with a tonsure made Athelstan laugh.

“Maybe I can fix it for you,” Athelstan said. “Let’s see.”

“You do not need to,” Ragnar said. “You can hardly see in the dark.”

“It’s no bother,” Athelstan said. “Besides, you gave me my heart’s desire.” The notion of it made Athelstan’s belly fill with warmth. He was on dangerous ground now as Ragnar leaned closer to where he sat.

Ragnar had become more precious to Athelstan every day. If getting his hair out of his face was what he desired, then Athelstan would help him. Athelstan knee-walked across the crunchy hay until he was behind Ragnar.

“Now lean toward me a bit,” Athelstan directed, tapping Ragnar’s bare shoulder. “Just there.”

Athelstan knelt behind Ragnar and dug his hands into Ragnar’s damp hair. Ragnar smelled of the earth, the salt, the sea. Athelstan sensed the muscles that rippled on Ragnar’s back. The moonglow cast a light on Ragnar’s upper arms that supported his weight as he leaned back toward Athelstan.

Athelstan was grateful for his tunic that provided a barrier between his chest and Ragnar’s back. He suffered enough from the temptation of his thoughts about Ragnar’s hands on him. His tunic became a shield that guarded him from falling to the temptation that called him to act. He silently thanked God that Ragnar was facing away from him as he began to separate his hair into three sections.

“You will do a good job,” Ragnar said. “Don’t bother fussing too much with it. You cannot be expected to do the work of a shieldmaiden.”

“I am going to make a special knot for you,” Athelstan said, ignoring Ragnar’s quip. 

“I did not know there was such a thing, this special knot,” Ragnar said.

“I assure you, there is,” Athelstan said. He worked the hair into three separate sections, one in the middle, and one on each side of Ragnar’s head. “Have you noticed my cincture, the belt I wear with my habit?”

“The rope?” Ragnar asked.

“Yes,” Athelstan said, shoving the side pieces of Ragnar’s hair out of the way. The hair that grew over the tattooed part of Ragnar’s head that had been shaved before he arrived at Lindisfarne was now an inch long. The gash in his head from where he had suffered his most severe injury that led his men to abandon him for dead had fully healed. Athelstan did not bother with the short pieces of hair. He needed to braid the long lengths of hair to keep them out of Ragnar’s face.

“We weave the cords ourselves,” Athelstan said, beginning to work a braid down the centre of Ragnar’s head. Athelstan silently begged God for forgiveness. He was certain that this was the most sacrilegious thing he had ever done in his life. His heart pounded as he wove the strands of Ragnar’s hair.

“You monks are very talented,” Ragnar said. “I know some things about weaving and fibre-making from my life in Kattegat.”

“Then the cord is tied in a series of three knots,” Athelstan continued, tugging on Ragnar’s hair before searching for a scrap of fabric from his destroyed habit to tie off the braid. His cock was impossible to ignore, as it hardened with every stroke of his fingers through Ragnar’s hair. He could imagine the fires of hell that would wash over him for his sin of lust, but he was powerless to stop the motion of his hands as they wove a plait.

“Tear off a strip from this will you?” Athelstan asked, using one hand to pass Ragnar the remains of his habit while his other hand held the braid.

Ragnar took the tattered fabric and tore off a narrow strip which he handed to Athelstan.

Athelstan tied off the braid and went to work on the left side of Ragnar’s head.

“The three knots are for the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Athelstan said, admitting to Ragnar and to God that he had knotted Ragnar’s hair with a Christian symbol that was sacred to the monks of Lindisfarne.

“The knots are magic,” Ragnar said.

For all Athelstan’s desire to bring Christianity to Ragnar, he knew now that he had to be satisfied with Ragnar’s interpretation of the knots. To Ragnar, they were something as foolish as magic. For all his reading from the Gospel of Saint John, for all his teaching Ragnar the ways of Jesus Christ, perhaps Athelstan would get no further than this in his efforts to spread the word of God.

“Yes, they are magic,” Athelstan said reluctantly. It was easy to braid the sides of Ragnar’s hair, now that the middle section was out of his fingers’ way.

“I will feel special indeed, with such protections from your Christ God,” Ragnar said. He turned his head, making Athelstan’s fingers lose their grip. 

Athelstan gasped. His hand darted forward quickly to regain the lost strands of Ragnar’s hair.

Ragnar circled Athelstan’s wrist with his large hand and said, “Your knots will protect me, when I am not protecting you.”

Athelstan let out a breath. He hoped Ragnar was right.

~

The barn was quiet, except for the occasional snort from an animal as it slept.

Ragnar shivered himself awake. His teeth rattled. His toes were as numb as they had been when he slept on the beach at Lindisfarne. He could not remember where he left his tunic.

Perhaps he was dreaming. Ragnar opened his eyes and decided that, no, this was not a dream. In the dim moonlight, Athelstan snored peacefully beside him. He seemed unaffected by the cold.

The gooseflesh prickled on Ragnar’s shoulders as if he had plunged into a fjord in the middle of a winter snowstorm.

Upon further inspection, Ragnar noticed that Athelstan was wrapped in not one, but two cloaks. Ragnar had none. Athelstan must have tossed and turned in his sleep, stealing Ragnar’s cloak from beneath him.

Ragnar quietly rose from where he slept. Upon standing, he reached for the back of his head, where a damp bundle of braids fit into the grasp of his hand.

He smiled and remembered that he and Athelstan had both collapsed with exhaustion after Athelstan had braided his hair using the three knots like the followers of the Christ God’s monks. Nine strands, three plaits, three knots. Ragnar’s gods would be pleased as well.

Ragnar tiptoed across the barn to the door. On the way, he found his discarded tunic where he had left it in the straw. He picked it up and pulled it over his head. He shivered when he slid his arms into the cold garment. He listened for Athelstan to awaken, but he remained asleep. Ragnar quietly opened the barn door and walked outside.

The night air had cooled the meadow at the outskirts of the village. As Ragnar stood outside the barn door, taking a piss, he could hardly remember the heat of the day that he and Athelstan had travelled through. What he would not give for a similar warmth now. 

Tucking himself back in, Ragnar returned to the barn, closing the door behind him. He could see by the moonlight that Athelstan looked warm and comfortable. He did not want to disturb his sleep. Poor Athelstan had worked so hard to make up the miles they lost because they took time to bury the king’s men. Ragnar did not even try to argue that they should leave the remains of the king’s men where they found them. He knew better than to try to prevent Athelstan from fulfilling the duties he had accepted as a follower of Jesus Christ. 

But now, Athelstan was wrapped in Ragnar’s cloak and Ragnar had to do something that might wake him, lest he spend a restless night himself. Surely Athelstan would not complain.

At first, Ragnar pulled the edge of his cloak out from under where Athelstan lay upon it.

Athelstan’s mouth moved as he grumbled about the disturbance.

“Sorry,” Ragnar whispered.

Athelstan grunted.

Ragnar traced the outline of Athelstan’s shoulders with his eyes. “I’m just going to slide in next to you,” Ragnar whispered.

It made no difference whether Athelstan heard Ragnar or not. It made no difference whether he agreed with him or not. Ragnar was freezing and needed to get warm.

Ragnar smoothed a hand over the half of his cloak that he was able to free. The other half lay beneath a snoring Athelstan.

Ragnar climbed back onto the pile of hay and joined Athelstan atop his cloak.

That did not seem to disturb Athelstan’s sleep too much. 

Ragnar carefully reached over Athelstan to try to free some of Athelstan’s cloak that he had pulled over him. Athelstan felt warm, so Ragnar did not feel too badly for taking away some of his cloak.

Athelstan grumbled softly when Ragnar lifted the cloak from him. 

The sound of Athelstan’s breathy groans sent a rush of warmth to Ragnar’s groin. It had been ages since he had curled up next to a partner, be it to sleep, or to enjoy the body of another kind of bedmate.

He knew that Athelstan would want no part of breaking his vow of celibacy in a barn with a strange Northman, so Ragnar tried to tamp down the passion that flared in him when Athelstan slept so close.

Ragnar gently pulled the edge of Athelstan’s cloak that was free. He tugged so that it slid over his own body, covering both men. The wool had retained much of Athelstan’s heat, to Ragnar’s relief. He curled up next to Athelstan, who was none the wiser about having Ragnar between the cloaks with him. They rested, wrapped in a soft nest like a pair of sleepy kittens. 

Athelstan shifted from where he lay and rolled onto his side, away from Ragnar.

Ragnar feared that Athelstan would awaken to reprimand him for being so close. This was surely a sin in the eyes of his God. But thankfully, Athelstan drifted off to sleep again.

Ragnar followed Athelstan’s motion, rolling onto his side, so he mostly stayed under the cloak. He stopped when Athelstan’s back was pressed to his chest. The cloaks had become dishevelled, so Ragnar reached an arm across Athelstan to smooth the upper cloak, so it again covered both men. The warm nest was quite cosy. Ragnar had only to relocate his arm so that it rested somewhere comfortable. Of course, wrapping it around Athelstan was the obvious choice. He slowly let his arm fall so it wrapped around Athelstan’s shoulders. Ragnar’s face pressed into Athelstan’s neck, the curly hair at his nape tickling Ragnar’s nose.

A feeling of domestic bliss, like Ragnar had not experienced in a long while with Lagertha, washed over him. His limbs were warm. Even his toes had lost the bitter bite of cold that they had upon awakening. He stretched his legs, so they paralleled Athelstan’s legs, absorbing the warmth.

Athelstan’s God could think whatever he wanted about it. Their close quarters were keeping Ragnar from freezing to death.

The warmth rose from Athelstan’s body, his makeshift tunic covering his upper half. The trousers he wore with his habit kept his lower half warm. He had removed his boots before he slept and he had hung his socks to air out on a wooden rail inside the barn.

Ragnar’s legs tangled with Athelstan’s as Ragnar sought warm flesh to press his toes against to keep them warm.

The soft sounds of sleeping animals joined Athelstan’s snores. But Ragnar’s mind was on fire. He believed that they would surely reach Newcastle in the next day. He feared what would become of him when the king’s men learned that he led the raid at Lindisfarne.

Ragnar also wondered about the Northmen he had killed. Ragnar had the foresight to travel to the west in search of places to raid for treasure. It surprised him a little to learn that other men with more resources had the same idea. He worried that the Northmen he killed had raided other areas of Northumbria to the south. Ragnar feared that he would be punished for their antics there. England was a dangerous place to be a Northman. If he hoped to stay alive, he needed to rely on Athelstan’s word and the offer of protection from his forgiving God.

After they reached Newcastle, he would find his way home to Kattegat. The longship, anchored a day’s journey up the coast, could be a means for escaping Northumbria, but he worried about what kind of life awaited him in Kattegat. Earl Haraldson hated him. His men left him for dead. There was little comfort to seek in his home. Perhaps there was another way—another land to explore that he could call all his own.

So many thoughts plagued him.

Ragnar finally closed his eyes, taking comfort from having Athelstan asleep in his arms.

~

While the evening may have passed slowly for Ragnar, Athelstan slept like a babe.

He woke at first light with Ragnar’s arm draped around his middle. His eyes flew open, but he quietly settled back into Ragnar’s warmth. What should have been a grave cause for alarm, brought only comfort to Athelstan.

Athelstan thought about slipping out from the cloak and finding a different place to sleep in the hay, but he did not. Where once he would have fled from such sinful contact, now he could not leave the warmth of Ragnar’s embrace.

Athelstan pondered about what had become of his life in the past month. He saw his brothers die. He rescued Ragnar, an unbelieving pagan, from nature’s icy grasp. And now, he travelled with the strange pagan to a castle where the king would surely want Ragnar dead if he knew all the havoc he had wreaked at Lindisfarne.

It troubled Athelstan that a pagan became a friend.

Instead of crawling on his knees to repent for his mighty sin of craving the warmth that rose off Ragnar, Athelstan could only thank God that Ragnar had come into his life. While he first sought God’s favour by bringing the word of his Gospel to Ragnar, now Athelstan found that he enjoyed Ragnar’s company. He wondered how he had ever lived without such companionship before.

“Dear God, I was so lonely,” he whispered to the dawn air. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes.

Ragnar stirred beside him, but Athelstan smoothed his fingers over the back of Ragnar’s hand that curled against his chin.

He took a few moments to join Ragnar’s subtle breathing with his own, the rise of their chests in unison underneath the warmth of the cloaks. He hoped that it would lull Ragnar back to sleep. He still feared the warmth that Ragnar sparked in his body. Although his thoughts about surrendering to temptation weighed heavily on his mind, he was not prepared to forego his sacred vows that he took in the company of his brothers. Not yet, at least.

It had become clear to Athelstan that his feelings for Ragnar were not the same as those that he had for his brotherly monks.

Although he had the camaraderie of his brothers at the monastery, they never slept so close like this. Athelstan wondered if the same feeling would have come over him had he been encouraged to seek warmth among his brothers some night when a cold storm blew in from the sea.

He decided it wouldn’t.

Ragnar was so different from his brothers.

Ragnar had not only tolerated Athelstan’s love of God, but he had actively participated in listening to him read from the Gospel of Saint John. He had encouraged Athelstan to braid his hair in the manner that honoured the holy trinity.

He had killed a dozen men to protect Athelstan.

Although the killing was certainly in violation of God’s laws, Ragnar did it to save Athelstan’s life. There was something noble in protecting the life of one of God’s ardent servants. Athelstan could forgive Ragnar and he thought that God could forgive Ragnar, too.

Athelstan appreciated that Ragnar had the curiosity to wonder about other ways of life. He would walk in the way of the Lord Jesus Christ if it made sense for him to do so. Right now, it made more sense for him to follow his own path, protecting his pagan honour and protecting the monk who saved his life when he lay freezing on the beach at Lindisfarne.

Ragnar stretched out beside him, the press of his chest against Athelstan’s back.

Athelstan was glad that he had donned his makeshift tunic because the thought of Ragnar’s chest touching Athelstan’s bare back was enough to trigger Athelstan’s lust. Athelstan’s cheeks burned hot with the thought of it, but he was far too comfortable to respond with the shock and the plea for forgiveness that he should have felt while lying beside a man.

“Are you awake?” Ragnar asked, his voice whispered in Athelstan’s ear.

Athelstan shuddered to hear Ragnar’s voice so close.

“Barely,” Athelstan whispered back.

Athelstan felt Ragnar’s arms tighten around him.

Ragnar moved tentatively at first. And then, when Athelstan offered no resistance, he embraced him more soundly.

Instead of fleeing, Athelstan relaxed into Ragnar’s touch, into the arms of the man who saved him from the Northmen.

“Are you warm enough?” Ragnar asked.

Being warm enough had been the furthest thing from Athelstan’s mind. He was too warm, too heated in his bed on the hay.

“Yes,” Athelstan said, letting his fingertips skim across the back of Ragnar’s hand. “Are you?”

Ragnar took a deep breath. He turned Athelstan’s hand over, so they were palm to palm. He linked their fingers together and stroked Athelstan’s hand with a calloused thumb.

“I am warm enough,” Ragnar said, the hint of a smile in his voice.

Athelstan felt the familiar warmth of sin crawl into his belly. But this time, he did not push it away with prayers of repentance. Athelstan was no longer lonely. He no longer craved the touch of a brother that was forbidden and that would never come. If all he could do was hold Ragnar’s hand like this while he sank into the warmth of his embrace, it would be enough to sustain him for all the years of his life yet to come.

“Go back to sleep,” Athelstan said. “Morning will be here soon.”

 

~

Ragnar slept for another hour. The barn flooded with sunlight that warmed him where he lay. His legs felt hot, trapped by the heat of the cloak and his bedmate. He stretched his legs carefully, testing the injury to make sure he had not strained his leg unnecessarily during their long walk the day before. He raised his head off his cloak and watched Athelstan sleep. His arm was still wrapped around him. Athelstan’s heart beat beneath Ragnar’s palm.

Athelstan’s eyes fluttered open.

Ragnar froze.

Athelstan closed his eyes again. In an instant, every muscle in his body seemed to relax as if he felt safe and protected.

Athelstan’s fearlessness filled Ragnar with an easy peace. Ragnar thought that Athelstan would have pushed him away when he woke. Instead, he seemed to grant Ragnar permission to stay warm with him beneath the cloak.

“We will reach Newcastle today,” Ragnar whispered, needing to say something that would let Athelstan know he was awake. He wondered if Athelstan dreaded his visit to the king as much as Ragnar did. Ragnar feared that they would be separated, questioned, and Ragnar would be blamed for every Northumbrian death of the past decade. He did not know what the Northumbrian king would do with Athelstan.

Athelstan hummed lazily.

“If anything happens to you,” Ragnar said, his lips in Athelstan’s hair, “If we are separated and you become fearful, remember the defences I taught you when we were sparring.”

Athelstan laughed lightly. “The king will not attack a monk,” he said.

Ragnar let his fingers trace circles across the fabric that covered Athelstan’s chest.

“Maybe not. But we do not know what Jonah will tell the king,” Ragnar said. “Nor do we know if Jonah found the remains of the king’s men.”

“If he did, he didn’t take the time to give them an honourable burial.” Athelstan reached for Ragnar’s hand, stopping its motion, but he did not push him away.

“Only you would worry about such things,” Ragnar said, tightening his arms around Athelstan momentarily and then relaxing them again.

“You might too, if you were a good Christian.”

“Instead, I am a good Northman.”

“And you’re not even that good,” Athelstan said.

Ragnar laughed. He supposed what Athelstan said was true. He had killed and pillaged. He had brought chaos to Athelstan, his friends, and into Athelstan’s peaceful world. It was nothing short of a miracle that Athelstan could see some good in him at all. Athelstan believed that Ragnar was worthy of redemption. That was enough to ease Ragnar’s fears.

Athelstan wriggled himself loose and turned around in Ragnar’s arms.

At first, Ragnar feared that Athelstan might shove him away or go outside to relieve himself, anything to get away from Ragnar, who had brought such disruption into his life.

But Athelstan stayed. He sank down beside Ragnar, now facing him and lying pressed against him between the cloaks.

Athelstan’s eyes flitted from Ragnar’s nose, to his hair, to his chin. He looked unsure of himself, as if he did not know where to focus. 

Ragnar held his arms loosely around him, letting his hands fall as they did, one on Athelstan’s back, the other pinned between the cloak and the side of Athelstan’s face. His fingertips skimmed the fabric of Athelstan’s ruined habit-turned tunic.

“You’re worried enough that they won’t listen to me,” Athelstan said. “I should not have teased you about not being a good person.”

Ragnar did not know what to say. His eyes met Athelstan’s and, for the first time, he was able to admire how beautiful they were at such a close distance. Athelstan’s sincerity shined through them, making Ragnar feel so very unworthy of his attention and care.

“I am not always a good person,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan’s eyes were on Ragnar’s lips.

Ragnar did not dare move, lest he send Athelstan scurrying away. 

He did not dare to look away. 

He did not dare breathe.

The air in the barn became very still. It was as if the dust motes caught in the rays of sun that streamed through the barn window had suddenly stopped their motion.

Athelstan moved first. He leaned forward with a tilt of his chin.

The kiss was soft. And uncertain. A simple brush of Athelstan’s lips on Ragnar’s. It could have been an accident.

For a long moment, neither man moved. Ragnar simply looked into Athelstan’s eyes. He waited and wondered if there would be more, not daring to move, even to breathe.

Finally, Ragnar could not restrain himself from the fire that had ignited within him any longer. And neither could Athelstan.

Athelstan’s hands slid up Ragnar’s back. He pulled Ragnar toward him, grabbing at his tunic, while Ragnar closed the distance between Athelstan’s mouth and his own.

The kiss was inelegant, a meeting of lips and tongue.

Ragnar involuntarily closed his eyes and tried to commit every moment of this to his memory. The scratch of Athelstan’s new beard on Ragnar’s lips. The solid weight of him beneath the cloak as he pressed against Ragnar.

Athelstan was tentative at first, but grew in boldness as the moments unfurled. He took a lick at Ragnar’s bottom lip before plunging his tongue into Ragnar’s mouth. His lips were soft as the petal of a spring blossom and his mouth was as sweet as the purest water of a crystal deep fjord.

Ragnar clutched Athelstan in his arms, pulling him impossibly close. He could no longer distinguish where he ended and where the warmth of Athelstan’s body began. He dared to crack one eye open to watch Athelstan. Athelstan’s eyes were closed tightly as if he were too shy to witness their kiss himself.

Ragnar revelled in the knowledge that Athelstan had never been kissed before. He was certain that Athelstan felt like he floated on air, like a wisp of dust caught in the sun’s rays. It was surely the most marvellous feeling he had ever experienced… until the barn door burst open.

~


	9. Chapter 9

Athelstan scrambled off the makeshift bed. His feet found the floor and sent the bedding skittering to the ground. The hay stabbed sharply at his bare feet. The fresh smell of grass wafted through the window, but the scent was displaced by the smell of sweat and steel.

He dropped to his knees and prayed that God would forgive him for his indiscretion with Ragnar. His mind went in fifty different directions. Shaking with fear, Athelstan was torn between acknowledging his sinful actions and accepting his feeling of being cherished in Ragnar’s arms.

The next thing Athelstan knew, rough hands pulled him out of the barn and dragged him into the harsh sunlight. He caught sight of Ragnar through the doorway, still inside the barn. He looked just as surprised as Athelstan did. His fists clenched for want of a weapon.

Athelstan struggled to free himself, but it was no use. It seemed like, in the few moments it took him to get his bearings, he had forgotten everything that Ragnar had taught him about fighting. 

“I told you they were in here,” a bearded man with a shabby fur coat said. He held the barn door open while archers took their positions.

Athelstan suspected that he was the farmer who owned the barn. He had hoped that he and Ragnar would be able to move on and complete their journey to Newcastle, but when he saw the men with spears and arrows that met them outside the barn, he knew it was too late. The men wore the king’s colours and their weapons were drawn.

“What is the meaning of this?” Athelstan cried. “I’m a monk of Lindisfarne.”

“You’re no monk, dressed in those tatters,” one of the guards shouted. He jabbed at Athelstan’s middle with the butt end of a spear. Athelstan was brought to his knees. His hands went to his belly and he choked as he tried to keep from vomiting.

“And your hair is too long to be a monk,” another guard added. He grabbed Athelstan by his hair and yanked him backwards. Athelstan felt the guard’s spit on his face. “You didn’t even try very hard to disguise yourself as a monk.”

Athelstan knew that Ragnar would be strong. He would jump into action to defend them from the intrusion, but Ragnar’s fists would be no match for the spears and arrows that greeted them. 

To Athelstan’s surprise, Jonah strode past him. “I didn’t believe him for a moment,” he told the archers, signalling toward Athelstan. “There were three of them in Alnwick. The other two must be around here somewhere.”

Athelstan’s heart sank when he realized that he and Ragnar had been deceived by Jonah and his intentions. May God forgive him for hoping that Jonah met with a painful end for his deception.

Athelstan worried that these men did not know about Brother Benedict’s death. For all they knew, Athelstan and Ragnar alone had been responsible for the death of the king’s men.

“There he is, there is the heathen,” Jonah led the men inside the barn to Ragnar. They kept their weapons trained on Ragnar while he sized them up.

Athelstan cursed himself for braiding Ragnar’s hair. There was no hope of him passing for an Englishman now, no matter how much of the language Athelstan had taught him. Neither he, nor Ragnar, stood a chance.

Athelstan watched Ragnar’s eyes flit from the bows that the men carried to their belts. Athelstan sensed that Ragnar was searching for the weapons that the men might have concealed on their persons.

“I knew there was something odd about him when he turned up in Alnwick,” Jonah said.

“There’s been reports of Northmen sailing up and down the coast for weeks now. They’ve been raiding, attacking, and pillaging, but it looks like you are putting an end to it now,” another of the men said to Jonah. “You’ll be rewarded handsomely for your service to the king.”

So that was it, Athelstan realized. This was all about money, with no regard for honesty or contrition.

“Ragnar is innocent,” Athelstan pleaded, without regard for his own safety.

“Innocent?” Jonah asked with a laugh. “You know, as well as I, that this man was responsible for the raid at Lindisfarne.”

“The king has already determined the punishment for the raiding Northmen and for the apostate,” a spear-wielding guard said.

Another of the guards unfurled a parchment after breaking the crimson seal that held it shut. He read the proclamation, “The punishment for the Northmen is death by hanging.”

“And what of the punishment for impersonating a man of God?” the man with the fur cloak asked.

“I’d say the punishment for apostasy is death by crucifixion,” the guard answered. He then struck Athelstan across his back with the stick that held his spear. Athelstan crumpled into the wet grass. “But that may be too good for this one.” 

Athelstan brought his hands together to pray. “Dear Lord Jesus, forgive me for my sins.”

“Apostate!” another guard yelled. “We know what’s to be done. The bishop is on his way.”

Athelstan watched as the archers drew their bows and aimed at Ragnar.

“Ragnar!” From where he lay, Athelstan screamed at the top of his lungs.

A pair of guards hoisted him by his shoulders. Athelstan’s feet slipped in the dewy grass as he was dragged across the meadow.

Upon a rise, more men, wearing the king’s colours, stood ready to receive him.

“Ragnar!” Athelstan shouted again and again with his waning strength, but Ragnar could not save him.

Athelstan was stripped of his tunic. The spikes of the scourger’s whip bit into the skin of his back. He clasped his hands in prayer and begged for God to save him. Another whip strike left its sting across his shoulders. He could feel the burn of the leather as it left a track across the sensitive skin.

With his last breath, he cried out for Ragnar before he fell to the ground.

When he next came to his senses, he felt the sharp pain across his forehead. He wiped away a drop of rain as it leaked into his eyes but when his hand came away, his fingers were covered with blood.

He tried to move his other hand but when he looked at what impeded him, he gaped in horror. His hand had been nailed through the palm into a beam of wood.

From where he lay, he looked onto the field and began to pray, “I will lift thine eyes to the mountains from whence cometh my help,” but there were no mountains, only meadow and field and an old barn where the taste of love’s first kiss had found his lips.

~

“Behind you,” Ragnar said. “Do not try to turn your head.”

Ragnar knelt beside the length of wood in the grassy meadow. He was out of breath, but he knew that he had to work quickly, lest more men come for him and Athelstan.

Athelstan's lips quivered. “I thought you were dead,” he stuttered.

“I am not ready to enter Valhalla today,” Ragnar said. He stroked Athelstan’s tear-stained cheek with the back of his fingers. The silence of the meadow belied the battle that took place only moments earlier. 

“It hurts,” Athelstan said. His heels dug into the grass as he lay astride the long beam of the cross on which the bishop intended to crucify him.

“I know it hurts, but try to hold still,” Ragnar said in the most reassuring voice he could muster. He wanted to pet Athelstan's hair to soothe him, but he was afraid that any action would hurt him further.

Ragnar's hands were stained with blood. He picked at the thorny crown that circled Athelstan's head. No matter how much his own fingers were nicked by the prickly thorns, his pain could not compare to what Athelstan had endured at the hands of his fellow Christians.

“There you go,” Ragnar said as he pulled the circle apart. It sickened him to see the streaks of blood that ran down Athelstan’s bare shoulders and chest. He hoped that the lacerations did not fester into a fever that could claim Athelstan’s life. “That is it. Hold still. You are doing beautifully.”

“Ragnar,” Athelstan said softly.

“Just a little bit more,” Ragnar said. He used his thumbs to push the thorns from Athelstan's brow, trying to prevent more injury as he worked. It broke Ragnar's heart to see Athelstan in such pain.

“Help me,” Athelstan cried.

“I am, my friend. You are being so strong,” Ragnar whispered, hoping it would soothe him. Athelstan was stronger than Ragnar imagined he could be. Ragnar was not sure that he could have tolerated the abuse Athelstan suffered. “I need you to stay strong for a little while longer.”

Athelstan let out a shuddery breath. “I know,” he said.

When Athelstan’s head was free from the thorny crown, he began to pant in relief.

“There, that is done,” Ragnar said wiping the blood from Athelstan’s brow. The pair of them were a right mess with their bloodstained skin, and there was still the matter of getting the nail out of Athelstan’s palm.

Ragnar got to his feet and searched the ground for a tool that would help him. He wrenched the mallet out of a dead Englishman’s hand. Another long nail rested in the grass by Athelstan’s foot. Ragnar was relieved that it did not meet its intended target. He plucked the nail from the grass and returned to Athelstan’s side.

Athelstan had covered his eyes with his uninjured hand and looked to be fighting to stay still. His chest heaved up and down as he took long breaths.

Ragnar dropped to his knees and set the mallet and the nail by Athelstan’s pinned hand.

“I beg of you, Odin, to let me do this without causing Athelstan more pain,” Ragnar said quietly as he gently touched his fingertips to Athelstan’s wrist. He did not care that Athelstan heard him praying to his own god. Chances were that Odin would be more helpful to them now than Athelstan’s Christ God had been.

Ragnar worked as quickly as he could. He pushed gently on the swollen flesh of Athelstan’s palm to make way for the fresh nail to slide against its brother, like a cross of crucifixion rising from Athelstan’s palm.

Athelstan cried out in pain.

Ragnar spoke over his cries, telling Athelstan how very brave and strong he was. Surely his Christ God would approve of such suffering, but Ragnar left that part out of his encouragements. He took the mallet in his hand and lay down in the grass, so he could strike the nail at the right angle.

Athelstan stopped moving when Ragnar made the first tap against the head of the free nail which was caught between Athelstan’s palm and the head of the nail that pinned him.

Ragnar held the nail in place and tapped against it with the mallet. After three taps, the nail that pinned Athelstan’s palm began to rise from the beam. Three more taps, and Athelstan’s hand was free, although the nail still protruded from his palm.

Athelstan rolled off the beam and lay on his side in the grass. He cradled his hand and gulped in great breaths of air. Before Ragnar could get to his feet, Athelstan had grasped the head of the nail and pulled it from his palm. He screamed in pain as he threw the nail aside and pressed his damaged hand to his bare chest.

Ragnar crouched in the grass beside Athelstan. He stroked his rough hand down Athelstan’s back while he convulsed in a fit of tears over his damaged hand.

“I am so sorry,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan’s skin was cold. The stripes left by the scourger’s whip rose from his back like rows of furrowed fields. Ragnar hoped he could find some clothing to replace what had been torn from him.

“What are you sorry about?” Athelstan asked, turning to face Ragnar with his tear-stained face.

“I promised I would protect you,” Ragnar said. “I failed.”

Athelstan took a moment to scan the meadow spread out before them. His jaw fell open.

Ragnar looked at the ground. He prepared himself for Athelstan’s anger about the sanctity of human life. The bishop and a half dozen Englishmen lay dead around the makeshift cross. Arrows protruded from their limbs, their chests, their heads. A trail of another half dozen dead bodies stretched from the rise to the barn, Jonas and the barn owner included.

With Athelstan’s life threatened, and a quiver of arrows within Ragnar’s reach, he hadn’t even needed to use his bare hands.

Athelstan clutched Ragnar’s arm with his uninjured hand. He looked up to meet his eyes, bruised and bloody from his beating.

“I would say that you did well,” Athelstan said.

~

In the barn, Athelstan did his best to wash off the blood. His hand ached as he plunged it into the bucket of cold water, but it was the only way he could clean the hole that pierced his palm. He used the old bits of his torn habit to scrub at the blood that had dried on his chest. It was nearly impossible to make any progress with only one functioning hand. He let the fabric soak up the water while he searched for where he had left his boots.

The kiss that he and Ragnar had shared leapt into Athelstan’s mind. It seemed like one of those dreams that vanished with morning’s first light, only to be remembered in the contemplative hours later.

Looking out the barn door, Athelstan could see that Ragnar had divested a guard of his clothing. He watched him step over the bodies as he searched for clothing that had not been pierced by an arrow, nor been soiled too badly with blood.

“Bless and keep them, my Lord,” Athelstan whispered as he gazed at the dead bodies in the meadow. Athelstan stopped himself from making the sign of the cross. He was no longer sure that he wanted to pray for the men who used his own faith to promulgate such cruelty.

And Ragnar… although Ragnar had killed to save their lives, Athelstan could not revel joyously in the experience of seeing all the dead Christians. He had stumbled toward the barn in a daze with only Ragnar’s hand on the small of his back to steady him. He had only learned of Ragnar’s fighting skills, days earlier. It would take some time for the truth to sink in. He travelled with a trained killer of men. The poor souls who encountered Ragnar did not stand a chance of surviving his fury.

He kissed him, Athelstan remembered. He kissed the killer of these men. May God forgive him. He wondered if Ragnar would even remember the kiss, after all that had transpired in the aftermath.

Athelstan felt his cheeks burning red. He turned back to the bucket of water. He lifted the fabric from the bucket and squeezed some of the water out, using one hand. He held his injured hand clasped tightly to his chest. With his good hand, he spread the linen out and pulled it over his face. He hoped that the water would soak into his skin and take some of the crusted blood away with it. He covered his mouth, trapping the wet cloth between his palm and his lips, wishing it would take away the sin of his kiss.

Ragnar’s footsteps approached, crunching in the straw. Although he recognised Ragnar’s limping gait, Athelstan pulled the linen from his face, just to make sure. His pulse quickened with the fear that the visitor to the barn might not be Ragnar. He had to work to push this foolish thinking aside when Ragnar entered the barn. He carried an armful of clothing.

“Let me see,” Ragnar said, dropping the clothing onto a pile of hay. He rushed to Athelstan’s side. Except for the limp, Ragnar looked none worse for wear after his deadly encounter with the Englishmen. He pressed his fingers beneath Athelstan’s chin and tilted his face upward.

Athelstan looked up at Ragnar. He let him take the wet cloth from his hand. For all Athelstan’s resolve, it took only a touch from Ragnar to make him acquiesce to anything. He was angry with God for making him so weak.

Ragnar bunched the cloth into a ball and pressed it against the wounds at Athelstan’s hairline. His concerned eyes roved over Athelstan’s face.

A horse neighed in the meadow.

The spikes of pain in Athelstan’s forehead competed with the ache in his pierced hand. He tried to breathe steadily and without fear.

Ragnar rinsed the cloth in the bucket and pressed again, dabbing at the lacerations to clean the dirt from them. When he finished with Athelstan’s forehead, he let the cloth drape wide and cool against the lash marks on his back.

Athelstan was silent as Ragnar picked the stray thorns from his hair.

“That is the best I can do for now,” Ragnar said, finally tossing the cloth into the bucket.

“Thank you,” Athelstan said, forgetting his aching hand for a moment.

Ragnar cupped Athelstan’s chin and looked him up and down. “You have cleaned up nicely,” he said.

A part of Athelstan’s heart thought that Ragnar might kiss him again, but he fought against both the hope for it and the shame of it. He looked away, escaping from Ragnar’s blue-eyed scrutiny.

“You need to soak that,” Ragnar said, motioning toward Athelstan’s hand.

Athelstan caught himself and went to the bucket. He held his damaged hand in his good hand and dipped them both into the water. He winced from the pain, closing his eyes tight. He heard the crunch of straw behind him and felt Ragnar’s warm presence at his back.

“I’ve brought you some clothing,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan turned around, his hands rising from the bucket.

Ragnar had unfurled a white tunic that looked to be clean. He held it up to Athelstan’s shoulders.

“This looks like it will fit,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan absentmindedly shook the water from his hands. He received a sharp reminder that he should not make such a motion while fresh blood dripped from his palm.

Ragnar took Athelstan’s hand before he could cradle it against his chest to ease the pain.

The wound on the back of Athelstan’s hand met Ragnar’s palm.

Ragnar gently forced Athelstan’s hand closed, the blood pooling in his palm again.

“We need to wrap this to stop the bleeding,” Ragnar said, his eyes full of concern.

Athelstan relished the warmth of Ragnar’s hand against his. He took comfort in Ragnar’s touch. It had been a long time since anyone had treated Athelstan with such care. He had devoted his life to God and his Saviour Jesus Christ. He had little time for concerns about his own well-being. He had always believed that God would provide for him… until he didn’t.

Ragnar placed the injured hand against Athelstan’s chest. The position made it ache less. He then turned his attention to the white tunic he had stolen from a dead man.

Athelstan watched in amusement as Ragnar tore the tunic from neckline to hem.

“That is a waste of a perfectly good tunic,” Athelstan chided.

“Nothing but the best for my priest,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan looked at the ground and shook his head. “I’m not a priest,” he said.

Ragnar continued to tear at the tunic, shredding the garment into long white lengths of fabric for bandaging Athelstan’s hand. “I will be the judge of that,” he said.

Athelstan sighed and sat on the pile of hay where they had slept. The rumpled cloaks still covered the scratchy straw. He pulled a few stray pieces of hay from the cloaks. It helped to distract him from the pain in his hand.

“Hold still,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan fully expected Ragnar to begin bandaging his hand. He looked up to see Ragnar slowly limp toward the barn door.

Ragnar raised his hand and motioned for Athelstan to stay where he sat.

Fear ran through Athelstan’s veins when Ragnar stepped out of sight.

“I knew you would return,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan’s eyes flew open when he heard Ragnar speaking to someone outside the barn.

“Would you like some nice hay?” Ragnar asked. “Come, come.”

Athelstan’s shoulders slumped in relief when Ragnar led a black mare into the barn. The horse had apparently stuck around after Ragnar’s attack on the Englishmen. Athelstan watched while Ragnar fed the animal some hay before tethering it to a rail in the barn.

“I don’t suppose there is another horse wandering outside that will take us to Newcastle,” Athelstan said.

Ragnar found the strips of fabric he had torn and strode up to Athelstan. He took Athelstan’s injured hand from where he had left it clasped to his chest. “We are not going to Newcastle,” Ragnar said, stroking Athelstan’s knuckles with his thumb.

Athelstan reluctantly surrendered his hand to Ragnar. He felt Ragnar’s eyes on him as he carefully wrapped the bandage around his hand. He had doubted that Ragnar would want to travel to Newcastle now. There would be too much danger there for both of them.

“Where will we go then?” Athelstan asked, as Ragnar wrapped the bandage carefully over his palm and around the back of his hand where the nail had torn raggedly through his skin. For one horrible moment, Athelstan thought Ragnar would tell him that he was leaving him. Ragnar would bind Athelstan’s hand and ride off on the horse, leaving Athelstan to fend off whatever attackers came for him.

“We will first go back to Lindisfarne,” Ragnar said, as he secured the bandage around Athelstan’s thumb.

Athelstan sighed with relief. He didn’t care much about returning to the monastery. He only cared that they would be together. A feeling of peace washed over Athelstan when Ragnar released his hand. This savage Northman had protected him, cared for him. He had killed for him. And now he was sworn to travel back to Lindisfarne with him. Athelstan knew not how he would ever repay his kindness.

“This one will do just as well as the other,” Ragnar said, pulling another tunic from the pile of clothing he had amassed.

Athelstan used his newly-bound hand in unison with his healthy hand to hold the tunic up to his chest.

“It looks the same as the other,” Athelstan said.

“Let us get some clothing on you,” Ragnar said. He bunched the tunic up to make an opening for Athelstan’s head.

Athelstan raised his hands in the air, allowing Ragnar to pull the tunic onto him as if he were a small child. He shivered at the feel of the cool fabric on his bare back.

The horse helped herself to the hay that littered the ground.

After tugging the tunic into place, Ragnar patted Athelstan’s chest.

Athelstan looked down to see Ragnar’s large hand lingering where it pressed against him. The fresh tunic lay trapped between Ragnar’s palm and Athelstan’s pounding heart.

Athelstan remembered. The warmth of Ragnar’s hand seeped through the fabric and made Athelstan recall how he had spent the night in Ragnar’s arms.

Ragnar’s eyes were on him, and Athelstan knew that Ragnar remembered too. 

Athelstan cursed his own God and all of Ragnar’s gods for making it so easy for him to sin. He took a step backwards and fought against the ache to be touched again.

“We must go,” Ragnar said, breaking the silence in the barn.

Athelstan helped Ragnar pack their belongings, shoving the cloaks into their packs and making use of the horse’s saddlebags for their own needs.

Ragnar helped Athelstan mount the horse before sliding onto the saddle behind him.

Athelstan got his balance and leaned back against Ragnar as he took the reins. He clasped his hands to his chest when the horse began to move. He had to trust that Ragnar would hold him upright as they rode north along the sea.

~

They covered some ground, moving faster than they would have on foot, although the horse walked slowly under the weight of two men. Ragnar kept hold of the reins and made sure to keep a good grip on Athelstan as he sat in front of him, cradled between his arms.

Every so often, Ragnar pressed his nose into Athelstan’s hair. When he dared, he traced the shell of Athelstan’s ear with his nose, stealing a secret touch from him and pretending it was an accident that he had moved so close.

“I am just making sure you are still awake,” Ragnar said, when he was once caught.

Athelstan turned his head. He looked sceptical.

“Git,” Ragnar said, giving the reins a shake.

The horse sped up her gait, oblivious to Ragnar’s ulterior motives.

While he scanned the road for more troops of Englishmen, Ragnar took the time to relish the feeling of Athelstan’s back against his chest. Although Athelstan was slight in stature, his back was broad and rippled with compact muscle. He had obviously done his share of hauling water and rowing a boat at the monastery. His was not exclusively a life of leisurely transcribing texts and gilding manuscripts, no matter how many times Athelstan tried to explain the details of those tasks to Ragnar.

For Athelstan’s sake, Ragnar hoped that he would still be able to wield a quill when his hand healed. He had no hope that Athelstan would be able to spar anytime soon, after his grave injury.

As late afternoon approached, the men quietly passed the place where Ragnar had taught Athelstan to fight. Their bellies had been full then, and they had been well-rested. Athelstan had no bloody hole reamed through his palm by those who professed to follow the same Christian God as he did. Ragnar took some comfort in the fact that he was able to kill the men who had harmed Athelstan. He had high praise for his own gods. They would have dragged Athelstan to glory in Valhalla for all his noble suffering. They would never have permitted Athelstan to return to a life where he still worshipped the same God as his tormentors. But worship, Athelstan did. Ragnar could hear him humming the hymns of Lindisfarne when the air was still. And to Lindisfarne, Ragnar would return him, although it pained Ragnar to have to let him go.

“Do you think we will have to stop to make camp for the night?” Athelstan asked.

Ragnar was ever watchful of the woods at the side of the road they travelled. The fresh sea breeze made the thin trees bow to its demands.

“I am hoping we reach our destination before dark,” Ragnar said.

“Alnwick?” Athelstan asked. He shifted in his seat to turn his head toward Ragnar.

“We can’t go back to Alnwick,” Ragnar said. “As hungry as you are for Mairi’s eggs.”

“It’s not that,” Athelstan said, clasping Ragnar’s arm, instead of keeping his steady grip on his injured hand. “Although a pint of ale would not be refused.”

Ragnar wrapped an arm around Athelstan and held him more securely.

“When we reach the shore where we thwarted the raiders and buried Benedict, I will catch you a fish dinner, if the ship is still there.”

“That seems like an awful lot of trouble too endure for a few fish,” Athelstan said.

Ragnar hated himself for what he was about to do, but truly Athelstan would be safer at the monastery than he would be roaming the countryside with a wayward Northman.

“When we reach the ship—”

“If it is still there,” Athelstan insisted.

“If it is still there,” Ragnar said. “We will sail north to Lindisfarne and you can be reunited with your brothers.”

Athelstan was silent.

“They will be able to heal you, if your wound causes you fever.” Ragnar rationalized his plan, hoping that Athelstan would understand it was for the best. “You can resume your gilding after your hand has healed.”

Ragnar tried to keep his voice steady, although his heart broke to know that they would part and go to live their separate lives.

“And if the ship isn’t there?” Athelstan asked.

“We will make a new plan to get you back where you belong,” Ragnar said.

“And you?”

“I will use the ship to return to Kattegat.”

Athelstan leaned back against Ragnar. He suddenly felt much heavier in Ragnar’s arms.

The sun sunk lower in the sky as they rode up the coast. Ever watchful of changes in the forest, Ragnar let his mind wander back to the morning when Athelstan lay in his arms, when their mouths met in a kiss. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Ragnar knew it was best if he did not dwell on it. Athelstan belonged to the monastery. Ragnar had no business encouraging him to leave his home. He should have prevented him from leaving with Benedict and going in search of the missing supplies in the first place. They should have returned to Lindisfarne after they told the tavern folk at Alnwick about the raid and the missing king’s men. They should have returned to Lindisfarne after Benedict was killed. They had made so many bad decisions. Ragnar would put an end to it, here and now.

Ragnar had made a mess of Athelstan’s life. The least he could do now was to return him to his home among the monks and hope that he could eke out a satisfying life in service to his God. 

If they would have him back.

The remaining monks at Lindisfarne could be as narrow-minded as the men who tried to crucify Athelstan. That was Ragnar’s greatest fear.

“Promise me that you will take care around your brothers,” Ragnar said. The words escaped his lips before he even realized he had been speaking aloud.

“What?” Athelstan asked, rousing himself from the monotony of sitting and doing nothing but managing the spikes of pain in his hand.

“Promise me that when we return to Lindisfarne, you will not allow your brothers to treat you as the king’s guards did.”

“They will not,” Athelstan said. “They are good Christians.”

“That is what I am afraid of,” Ragnar said. “The people who did this to you… they, too, were considered to be good Christians.”

Athelstan said nothing, but at least he seemed to have listened to Ragnar’s cautions.

Another mile passed, and the forest grew dark.

Ragnar had been sure that they would make it to the ledges where the anchored ship rolled on the waves and drifted with the tides.

~

Athelstan would say that Ragnar hadn’t exactly lied about the fish. By the time they reached the ledgy cliff where the ship was anchored, darkness had fallen. It was too late to cast a line in hope of catching dinner. The air was thick with the smell from the decaying Northmen who Ragnar had killed and left where they lay. Athelstan suspected that the animals had feasted on them in the days that had passed. Fortunately, it was too dark to see much of what remained of the carnage.

Athelstan used Ragnar’s arm to hold onto as he slid off the horse’s back. He was somewhat relieved that the ship was still there. It made it easier for him to stop daydreaming about what might be.

He hadn’t said anything about it to Ragnar, but Athelstan secretly hoped that the ship had broken from its mooring and drifted away. He hoped that they would be able to spend another night together, even if it meant they would have no food and that they would need to make a rough camp.

But the ship was there, vanquishing his dreams.

The ship’s existence dissuaded Athelstan from exploring an alternative to travelling back to Lindisfarne. It freed him from the temptation of breaking his vows. Ragnar would return him to Lindisfarne. Athelstan would be absolved for the sinful thoughts that tortured his mind and his body as he sat pressed shoulder to thigh against Ragnar all day.

In truth, their journey was ending far too soon for Athelstan’s liking. Exhausted and injured, he thanked God that his torment would soon be at an end. There was no choice to be made. Athelstan would return to Lindisfarne and Ragnar to Kattegat. After all that had transpired, they hadn’t gotten any further from where their story began.

Only a bright moon promised that they would have light enough to reach the ship. The tide worked against them, but Athelstan was able to keep the waves from cresting over his waist as he waded through the surf. He carried his pack with his dry cloak and a few of their diminishing supplies wrapped safely inside.

On the shore, Ragnar set the horse free to graze. She would find her way back to the king’s stables when the next Englishmen travelled through this part of the land.

Athelstan appreciated that Ragnar treated the animal with kindness. From what he had known about the Northmen before he and Ragnar became so close, Athelstan would not have been surprised if Ragnar wished to slaughter the animal and roast its meat over a fire for the pair of them to eat for dinner. Perhaps Ragnar had learned something from Athelstan in their travels, after all. Perhaps they had both learned something from each other.

Athelstan climbed aboard the ship, no easy task since his hand throbbed from disuse during the ride and from the unavoidable fresh soaking in salt water. He held his hand to his chest, willing for the pain to go away. It felt better when he cradled it close. It seemed like the protection of his other hand was enough to make the pain subside.

Aboard the longship, Athelstan found a crate to sit on. He caught his breath as the sea water dripped from his trousers, slicking the deck. 

In the dim light, Athelstan saw that the ship held some supplies, but he left it for Ragnar to search. Athelstan could imagine cutting himself on a weapon left behind by the Northmen if he tried to rummage around in the crates and barrels that were stowed away. If he was useless with one hand, he would be even more so with no hands to help Ragnar launch the ship for a journey up the coast to Lindisfarne.

Athelstan unshouldered his pack and waited. He hated the feel of his wet feet inside his boots. But, without two hands, he was as helpless as a child when it came to removing them. He watched Ragnar stride through the surf, his height keeping him more above water than Athelstan was during his short trip from the shore.

The moon cast a streak of light over the undulating waves. Athelstan was grateful that the weather and the seas were mostly calm.

When Ragnar had sloshed his way to the ship, Athelstan reached his good hand over the edge to help him aboard. Ragnar’s hands were still warm.

Ragnar rolled onto the deck during a lull in the waves. After catching his breath, he got to his hands and knees on the deck.

“Have you found anything we can use?” Ragnar asked, tapping on a crate.

“I haven’t really looked,” Athelstan said. He was tired of being cold and wet, so he dug into his pack to search for his cloak.

Ragnar dropped his pack to the deck and by moonlight, pried open a crate.

Athelstan watched as he unpacked the Northmen’s supplies that would have gone to waste. He guessed that at least some of it was from the supplies that had been destined for Lindisfarne.

“This is still good,” Ragnar said, chewing on a piece of hard bread.

Athelstan raised an eyebrow and Ragnar handed a piece to him.

“It is not the meal I promised you,” Ragnar said. He gave Athelstan a little shove and took a seat beside him on the crate.

“Well done, though,” Athelstan said, spreading the cloak over his legs. “The Lord provides.”

It was difficult to see in the moonlight, but Athelstan wondered if Ragnar was laughing at him. Only a fool would continue to worship the God who encouraged his followers to crucify him.

“Your god does some mysterious things,” Ragnar said with a sigh.

Athelstan heard the question in Ragnar’s voice. He did not speak out of anger. He wasn’t bemoaning Athelstan for his continued worship of God, but he questioned the wisdom of it.

Athelstan could not have agreed with Ragnar’s scepticism more. He shifted on the crate, huddling closer to Ragnar for some shared warmth. The lash wounds on his back had stuck to his tunic. They stung as Athelstan moved.

The ship rose and fell gently on the tide. The moon shimmered across the water, like a beam of light from a torch in a dark cave.

Ragnar went to his knees and searched through his pack that he had heaved aboard. Finding what he was looking for, he handed over a waterskin to Athelstan.

Athelstan took it and drank greedily. He hoped they had enough fresh water to supply them as they sailed to Lindisfarne. If not, they would need to find more on board, or they would have to stop along the way. Athelstan knew little about voyaging, but he knew that it would not be easy for the two of them to manage the ship in the dark. He handed the waterskin back to Ragnar, who secured it on the deck before returning to pay attention to Athelstan.

“May I ask your thoughts about returning to Lindisfarne?” Ragnar asked. He knelt on the deck, one hand clutching Athelstan’s damp thigh.

“You may ask,” Athelstan said. He was sure that Ragnar would not find the answer he was looking for. Athelstan knew that it would be nearly impossible to sail the longship to Lindisfarne in the dark, but he was more concerned with anticipating the ache that Ragnar’s absence would cause, than the practicality of night navigation.

Athelstan put his hand over Ragnar’s. He would be lonely without Ragnar. He questioned why God had put Ragnar in his path at all. If this was a test of his faith, he feared that he was failing. He could never convince a heathen to follow the path of Christ’s righteousness now. The hole in his hand made him a liar. He could barely convince himself to return to God’s service, after what he had endured. 

“I see that you are tormented, my friend,” Ragnar said, looking at their hands.

Athelstan was tormented. He harboured anger toward God for allowing his brothers to be killed and for leaving him with a damaged hand. He could not manage a quill, even if he wanted to become a scribe again. Then there was the curse of his attraction to Ragnar. Finally, when he thought he had known true joy, his fellow Christians tore him from Ragnar and hauled him off to crucify him. Now Ragnar was going to take him back to Lindisfarne and leave him there to suffer forever alone, while he went on a journey back to Kattegat. 

Was this what God wanted for Athelstan? Had he not suffered enough for the love of God?

Ragnar turned his hand over and laced his fingers with Athelstan’s.

“It is too dark for us to travel tonight,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan looked at their hands and nodded. “I understand,” he said, without moving away. If anything, he held Ragnar a little closer, a little tighter.

Only the splash of gentle waves against the rocky shore broke the silence.

For a long moment, Athelstan watched their fingers entwined. He felt Ragnar’s eyes on his face.

“If I asked,” Ragnar said, softly, “would you let me kiss you again?”

~


	10. Chapter 10

“Yes,” Athelstan whispered, so softly that Ragnar worried that he did not hear what word passed his lips.

Ragnar dropped his head, uncertain. He had feared that this was perhaps too much for him to ask. 

Athelstan’s fingers moved against Ragnar’s and he turned his head to look at him.

Even in the dim light, Ragnar could see the flush on Athelstan’s cheeks. The shimmer from the moonlight sparked in his eyes, making him more beautiful than any shieldmaiden.

“Yes,” Athelstan said, stronger, as if to confirm his answer. He squeezed Ragnar’s fingers.

Ragnar looked up from where he knelt at Athelstan’s feet. He knew Athelstan could see him fully as the moon shined on his face. He slid his hand up so his palm cupped Athelstan’s cheek. The feel of his scruffy unshaven face tickled Ragnar’s fingers. Ragnar rose on his knees and stroked Athelstan’s cheek with his thumb.

Athelstan swallowed and leaned forward.

Ragnar knew better than to rush things where Athelstan was concerned. Athelstan feared his God’s retribution for experiencing almost any kind of pleasure and Ragnar worried about making Athelstan behave in a way that he would later regret.

“Do not be afraid,” Ragnar whispered.

Ragnar brought his other hand to Athelstan, stopping when he held his face in his hands. Ragnar closed his eyes, moving forward. He was careful to press their lips together gently. If Athelstan’s god was good enough to look the other way, Ragnar understood that he ought to appreciate it and treat Athelstan with tenderness, instead of wildly ravishing him from head to toe, no matter how much the lust for Athelstan filled his belly. He kissed him softly and then retreated.

“I’m not afraid,” Athelstan said as he pulled Ragnar closer, tugging with one hand on his messy braids. His tentative lips sought and found the warmth of Ragnar’s mouth.

Ragnar held still, without advancing, while Athelstan licked his bottom lip and artlessly kissed him. The same taste of Athelstan filled Ragnar’s senses as it had done earlier that very morning. The now familiar taste of Athelstan’s mouth quenched his thirst like an elixir that Ragnar could no longer live without.

Ragnar had enough of Athelstan’s exploring. He slid his tongue into Athelstan’s mouth for a better taste.

Athelstan gave a tug on Ragnar’s braids, easing him away. 

“You are trembling,” Ragnar questioned, as he felt Athelstan’s lips quivering against his own.

Athelstan drew back. “I’m a little cold,” he said, a smile in his voice.

Ragnar admonished himself. How could he have been so foolish to not notice that Athelstan trembled with the cold from his wet clothing—not the fear of kissing him. Ragnar let one hand leave Athelstan’s face. He wrapped an arm more soundly across Athelstan’s shoulders.

“I would be honoured to warm you,” Ragnar whispered into his ear, hoping he sounded pleasing to Athelstan.

“I’d like that,” Athelstan said, turning and surging forward so his lips moved against Ragnar’s again.

For as cold as Athelstan was, the heat rose off his body. Ragnar could feel it beneath his fingers. He could sense it with his lips. 

Ragnar knew if he had been forced by one of his gods to never touch another lover as long as he lived, he would have given up the worship of such a god long ago. But Athelstan’s strange Christian ways were a part of him. Ragnar would never want Athelstan to give up his beliefs, no matter how foolish they seemed to Ragnar. He tried to appreciate that Athelstan had come so far in letting his desires outweigh his vows, but he dared not urge Athelstan to move faster than he was comfortable.

Ragnar skimmed his hands over Athelstan’s body as they kissed. The hard muscles of his arms slid under Ragnar’s fingers. Ragnar let his hand curl around Athelstan’s waist. He became acutely aware that Athelstan was truly cold since his trousers were soaked through from the surf.

Ragnar leaned back, feeling Athelstan’s fingers slip through his hair.

“I have some dry clothes in my pack,” Ragnar said. He would do the best he could to care for Athelstan in his time of need, as Athelstan had done for him when he lay on the cold beach at Lindisfarne.

Athelstan sulked quietly at the loss of heat.

Ragnar could not blame him.

“Wait one moment,” Ragnar said. It took all of Ragnar’s fortitude to work his way free from Athelstan’s enticing lips and caresses. He pressed a quick kiss to Athelstan’s lips and turned to where his pack lay on the deck. 

The ship gently rose and fell on the waves.

Ragnar pulled tunics and trousers from the pack. A stray knife went skittering across the deck.

Athelstan looked up from where he was fussing with the bandage on his injured hand.

“I do not remember putting that in there,” Ragnar said, laughing at himself.

Athelstan shook his head, but still he smiled. “Matthew insisted that I bring it, for all the good it has done me.”

Ragnar dragged his cloak out from the pack and threw it over Athelstan’s shoulders.

“Better?” he asked.

“A bit,” Athelstan answered noncommittally. “But help me with these wet boots.”

“Anything you wish,” Ragnar said. He hated himself for not recognizing that Athelstan had a need for his attention and it went unnoticed. He had been so smitten by Athelstan’s kisses that he could no longer keep his wits about him.

Ragnar dropped to his knees and took one of Athelstan’s feet in both hands. With a little tugging, he had removed the boot and went to work on the other one.

Athelstan held onto Ragnar’s shoulder with one hand to keep his balance and to provide some traction.

Ragnar laughed as he turned the boot upside down and let the water slosh over the side of the ship.

“Watch out for the dry things,” Athelstan said, leaning over and grabbing at the pile of clothes with his bandaged hand.

Ragnar bundled the clothes in his arms and set them on the crate beside Athelstan. He was grateful that the deck remained dry as the ship had bobbed in the waves all day. It would make a fine place to sleep for the night, which still promised to be clear.

Ragnar stood and stripped off his damp tunic, tossing it aside on the deck. He pulled off his own boots and drained the sea water from them. He watched Athelstan’s face as he unlaced his wet trousers and pushed them down over his thighs. Keeping his balance, he stepped out of them. Soon, Ragnar stood naked on the deck before Athelstan. He hoped that Athelstan liked what he saw.

Athelstan watched him with mirth in his eyes.

Ragnar emptied his own pack. He shook out his cloak and spread it over the deck. The night air felt colder now that Ragnar was naked. He reached for a tunic from the clothing that he had stolen from the English guards. Even if Athelstan let Ragnar warm him with body heat, he would need some clothing to avoid catching his death.

“This is more your size than mine,” Ragnar said, holding up the dry tunic.

Athelstan took it from him and dropped the tunic onto his lap. Without even a smile for a preamble, Athelstan reached his hand forward and touched Ragnar’s bare skin. He let his fingers wander, tracing the scar left by the wound that he had stitched when Ragnar first arrived at Lindisfarne.

Ragnar inhaled sharply at the touch of Athelstan’s fingers.

“Sorry, my hands are cold,” Athelstan whispered, shyly.

“No, do not apologize,” Ragnar said, taking Athelstan’s hand in his own. He pressed a kiss to Athelstan’s fingers and said, “I enjoy your touch, very much.”

Ragnar tugged on Athelstan’s hand and led him to his feet. The cloak fell from Athelstan’s shoulders. Ragnar steadied him with a hand to his elbow as the ship swayed beneath them.

“I promised to warm you,” Ragnar said. “But we must first get you out of those wet clothes.”

Athelstan smiled reassuringly and said, “I might need a little help.”

Ragnar silently thanked all the gods that Athelstan was not going to resist his advances. Despite Ragnar standing there with his cock half-hard, Athelstan did not seem fearful or intimidated in the least.

Athelstan let go of Ragnar’s hand and began to pull his tunic off by reaching behind his neck and grabbing hold of the fabric.

Remembering the lacerations made by the lashing, Ragnar eagerly stepped forward to help. He took the hem of Athelstan’s tunic and pulled it upward over his head. Dropping the tunic, Ragnar took a moment to admire Athelstan as he stood on the deck. His bare skin glowed in the moonlight. A smattering of dark hair graced the centre of his chest. It trailed downward in a straight line to where it crept beneath the laces of his trousers where a bulge strained at the fabric, affirming to Ragnar that Athelstan was no immature boy, but a man with needs of his own—and too little experience in dealing with them. 

Ragnar stepped closer and pushed a stray lock of Athelstan’s hair behind his ear. Behind him, the gentle waves crashed on the beach as a breeze kicked up. Ragnar let his mouth follow his fingers as he kissed the soft flesh beneath Athelstan’s earlobe. He followed the line of Athelstan’s neck with his lips, savouring the taste of his skin.

Athelstan shivered. He wrapped both arms around Ragnar and pulled him close, their chests colliding together in warmth.

“I need to touch you,” Ragnar whispered, his rough hands travelling up the fair skin of Athelstan’s bare back. He stayed mindful of the injuries left behind by the lash.

Ragnar remembered how Athelstan had taken care of him at Lindisfarne. Like a mother, Athelstan had tended to his injuries. 

Like a father, Athelstan had given him wise counsel on their journey. 

Like a son, Athelstan had listened to Ragnar’s instructions while they sparred, even if he could not use the knowledge to defend himself against the Christians just yet. He had learned and he would grow stronger and more skilled with every lesson. Like a warrior, Athelstan might fight at his side one day.

Athelstan found Ragnar’s mouth again and whispered against his lips, “You can touch me. Please.”

And now, like a lover, Athelstan was everything to Ragnar.

Ragnar placed his hands on Athelstan’s chest. He could feel his heartbeat against his palms. He slid his hands lower and hooked his thumbs into the waist of Athelstan’s trousers. Athelstan’s mouth was alive under his. Ragnar practiced kissing and learning what Athelstan liked best, even if Athelstan did not know himself. A gentle suck on Athelstan’s bottom lip had him moaning with pleasure. A lick to the tip of his nose made him laugh.

All the while, Ragnar was conscious of the fact that no one had ever made Athelstan feel this way before. In Kattegat, Ragnar had many lovers, but it thrilled him to know that no one had ever heard the little sounds of pleasure that Athelstan made. The quiet gasps and the soft moans—they were for Ragnar’s ears only and he would cherish them for as long as he lived.

“I’m not very cold anymore,” Athelstan said between kisses, his chest heaving with breathlessness.

“Come,” Ragnar said, “I know a way to make you even warmer.” He licked a path down Athelstan’s neck and bit down on the flesh at the juncture of Athelstan’s neck and his shoulder. 

Athelstan stopped kissing. He dug his fingernails into Ragnar’s back while Ragnar tugged his trousers down past Athelstan’s thighs and let them pool on the deck.

If Athelstan was shy, Ragnar did not notice it. He seemed to want Ragnar as much as Ragnar wanted him. Ragnar quickly made a nest of the clothing on top of the cloak. He gently lowered Athelstan to the soft pile, taking care with the lash wounds that scarred his back.

“Grab the other cloak,” Athelstan whispered hurriedly.

Ragnar turned and retrieved the cloak that had been wrapped around Athelstan’s shoulders. He flopped gracelessly onto the pile of clothing and dragged the cloak over them both. Propping himself up on one elbow, he hovered over Athelstan.

Athelstan used both hands to pull Ragnar closer, lifting his head so their mouths could meet again. Their legs tangled together beneath the cloak.

Ragnar’s cock was painfully hard and pressed against Athelstan’s thigh.

“Be careful of your hand,” Ragnar said, catching Athelstan’s injured hand in his. The bandage was wet from the sea and the fabric strips had partially unravelled.

Athelstan gripped Ragnar’s braids with his good hand, while he kissed his jaw.

As they kissed, Ragnar unwrapped the remains of the bandage. He tossed it aside before pressing a kiss to Athelstan’s palm.

“I am sorry you have been so hurt,” Ragnar whispered against Athelstan’s skin. The puncture left by the nail had stopped bleeding, but Ragnar was sure that it was still painful.

“It doesn’t hurt as much now,” Athelstan said. He stroked Ragnar’s back with the fingertips of his uninjured hand.

Ragnar gazed at Athelstan, so brave, so strong, his moonlit hair splayed around his head like one of the gilded halos in the Gospel of Saint John.

“I am here and you are safe now,” Ragnar said, before he kissed Athelstan deeply.

Athelstan welcomed the kiss, moaning deliciously at the contact.

“I will always keep you safe,” Ragnar said, when he came up to take a breath.

“I know,” Athelstan said, arching up to get more friction against his cock that pressed into Ragnar’s groin.

“Whatever you need from me, it is yours,” Ragnar murmured, shoving his thigh between Athelstan’s legs.

Athelstan’s cock was warm and hard against Ragnar’s skin. 

Ragnar felt Athelstan grind against him in the dark. If only he could teach the priest that his body was to be enjoyed by both of them. It was not something to hide away, untouched and unkissed. He speared Athelstan’s hair with gentle fingers. He pressed soft kisses to Athelstan’s cheeks, his lips, his eyes.

“Take whatever you need from me to seek your pleasure,” Ragnar whispered. “I am here for you… only for you.”

Athelstan pushed his injured hand against Ragnar’s hand that still held it closely.

It did not take long for Ragnar to understand what Athelstan wanted, despite his lack of words. Ragnar went with the motion and let Athelstan push him onto his back. He held Athelstan’s hand loosely as Athelstan straddled his hips.

Athelstan pressed his forehead against Ragnar’s and rocked against him, his cock sliding against Ragnar’s to the rhythm of the rolling sea.

“I… need… I… I… need.…” Athelstan stuttered.

Ragnar arched up against him, whispering, “That is it. Whatever you need, I will give you. It is yours to take from me,” to encourage Athelstan to chase his release.

Athelstan, hot with lust, collapsed onto Ragnar and ceaselessly slid his body against Ragnar’s heat.

Ragnar held himself steady and murmured encouragements while Athelstan rutted. He wanted to reach beneath the cloaks, to wrap his hand around Athelstan’s cock, but he was afraid that the sensation would be overmuch for Athelstan to bear.

Their hands were still clasped when Athelstan threw his head back and let a ragged breath escape his throat. Ragnar felt the warmth of Athelstan’s come spread across his belly. He held Athelstan as his body vibrated, thinking how strange it must be for someone so beautiful to have spent his life as a celibate monk.

It pleased Ragnar to no end that Athelstan shared himself with him. When Athelstan stopped shuddering, Ragnar let go of his injured hand. He wrapped his arms around Athelstan and rolled him gently onto his back. He soon followed Athelstan in his bliss, rutting against him, not needing much stimulation besides the debauched look on Athelstan’s face to urge him on. He collapsed beside him, careful not to crush Athelstan under his weight.

The smile on Athelstan’s face told Ragnar all he wanted to know. He rested his head on Athelstan’s outstretched arm while Athelstan’s injured hand rested on his own chest.

When they both had settled, Ragnar played with the dark hair in Athelstan’s armpit, making him giggle and squirm to get away.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Ragnar said. He rolled on top of Athelstan and pressed kisses to his bare chest. He sucked a nipple into his mouth, which earned him a kick from Athelstan as he shivered at the touch.

“If I knew you were going to be like this, I would not have consented to kissing you,” Athelstan laughed.

“Liar,” Ragnar said, accusingly. “You love me. What will your god think of your lies?”

Athelstan could not answer, because Ragnar kissed him again.

They lay beneath the inky sky, studded with stars. The rise and fall of the waves lulled them to sleep.

“Tomorrow, we will sail to Lindisfarne, but I cannot stay there,” Ragnar said, interrupting the gentle crash of the waves.

“But surely you can stay for a little while,” Athelstan said between yawns. He traced circles on Ragnar’s bare shoulder with his fingertips. 

“The king wants me dead and his people did this to you,” Ragnar whispered, stroking the back of Athelstan’s injured hand. “I no longer think that you are safe there.”

“But where will I go?” Athelstan asked. “Lindisfarne is my home.”

“I want you to come with me,” Ragnar said sleepily, “to Kattegat, or to wherever this ship takes us. I no longer care where, as long as you are safe.”

Athelstan did not reply. Ragnar let him drift off to sleep, hoping that Athelstan would consider his proposition. Of all the riches Ragnar had hoped to plunder when he raided west from Kattegat, he never could have dreamed that Athelstan would become his most cherished treasure.

~

Athelstan waved to the monks to ensure that they knew it was him, before he helped Ragnar guide the ship ashore. He hopped out after the vessel slid to a stop upon the sand. The tide was low enough, so they didn’t bother with the anchor. There was no need to get their clothing wet again by wading through the waves.

The long graceful neck of the dragon rose from the bow, just as the first Northmen’s bow emerged from the fog, sending fear into the brothers of Lindisfarne when it arrived on these shores. This time, however, the monks were there to greet the arrival.

“Brother Matthew,” Athelstan said, taking Matthew’s arm as he stepped ashore.

“Athelstan,” Matthew said, embracing him. He then scanned the longship for more occupants. Finally, he turned to Ragnar, “Ragnar, I am so glad you have returned.”

“We have terrible news,” Athelstan said.

“As do we,” Matthew said grimly.

Athelstan knew the first thing he needed to do at Lindisfarne would be to break the news of Brother Benedict’s death. It had weighed heavily on his mind as he and Ragnar had sailed the longship up the coast beneath the morning sun.

“Brother Benedict?” Matthew asked. His eyes roved over Athelstan.

Athelstan was sure that Matthew noticed the bandage on his hand, the scrapes on his forehead, and the tentative way that he walked.

“I’m sorry,” Athelstan said, addressing not only Matthew, but the small contingency of monks who greeted them on the beach. “There was an altercation. Our brother was felled by a raider’s arrow. He has gone to dwell in the house of the Lord.”

Matthew pulled Athelstan into an embrace and wept.

Athelstan held him and tried to comfort him. As they embraced, Athelstan’s eyes went to the distant line of monks who ferried crates along the causeway that connected Lindisfarne to the mainland. The tide was low enough that the men could walk without getting their feet wet. At first, Athelstan believed that some new supplies must have arrived, but upon closer observation, the monks seemed to be carrying items from the monastery to the mainland, not the reverse.

“May God bless Brother Benedict’s soul. And your soul, too, Athelstan. Have you been injured?” Matthew asked, taking Athelstan’s bandaged hand in his own.

A pang of sorrow filled Athelstan’s heart. Brother Benedict had been a good man. It pained Athelstan to know that the monks would spend the day of Athelstan and Ragnar’s return in grief over the loss.

“We were lucky to escape with our lives. But what is going on here?” Athelstan asked, directing Matthew away from his injured hand.

“That is the terrible news I must share with you. There have been more raids. A rider brought word from Alnwick two days ago. The heathens have been travelling up and down the coast for these past weeks,” Matthew said. “Brother Finian has decided that we are to relocate to Newcastle before more terror is visited upon our humble monastery.”

“And that is what you are doing?” Athelstan asked. “Moving to Newcastle?” He remembered that he had once hoped to guide his fellow monks into a new age at Lindisfarne after Father Cuthbert’s death, but now it seemed that Finian had stolen the reins from him. 

“We have no choice, but to listen to Brother Finian,” Matthew said. “We’ll be safer in Newcastle. Everything has been packed. This is the last of it.”

Athelstan once feared that Finian would thwart his attempts to lead the monks, but now, it seemed like Finian’s leadership was something he was doomed to accept. He could see a pair of carts loaded with the monk’s meagre possessions being pulled to the mainland.

“Finian is right,” Athelstan said. As much as he hated to admit that the monks would be safer in Newcastle, he would not question Finian’s decision. Finian could lead the monks. It made no difference to Athelstan. Everything had changed for Athelstan since he found Ragnar half-dead on Lindisfarne’s shores.

“I’m so glad you came back in time,” Matthew said. “We thought we would meet you and Brother Benedict on the way to Newcastle, but now we are blessed with your return to us.”

Matthew took Athelstan’s arm and within moments Athelstan was swept into the chaotic task of moving the monastery’s contents. The monk’s efforts had obviously been underway for days and were nearly complete. Athelstan watched Finian carry a crate, loaded with scrolls, across the causeway to the mainland.

“You’re just in time. Easier to walk with the dry land under our feet, than to ferry our possessions by boat,” Brother Hedrick said, dropping a crate of kitchen supplies so he could welcome Athelstan back.

Athelstan winced when Hedrick’s hand stroked his back as he embraced him, the memory of the lashes sharp in his mind.

After they embraced, Hedrick continued with his burden while Matthew led Athelstan toward the monastery. Athelstan had no choice but to follow the monks away from Ragnar, who waited silently at the shore.

Still, Athelstan could not tear his eyes away. The longship rested in the sand. From a distance, Athelstan watched as Ragnar adjusted the oars, readying them for his departure. Athelstan wondered how Ragnar would manage alone, although Athelstan was barely a help to him when they sailed up the coast to Lindisfarne. He hoped that Ragnar would say goodbye before the tide took him away to Kattegat and the lands he longed to explore.

Athelstan’s brothers greeted him as they walked past on their way across the causeway to the mainland, and Newcastle beyond. Athelstan scratched at his chest where the evidence of his sin had dried. Some of his fellow monks gaped at him, noting his strange attire. Athelstan folded his arms across his chest, certain that they could sense that he was now different from the rest of the monks. Still, the sin of his lust marked him out in the eyes of God, even if his brothers could not see it. 

“You may want to take one last look around, Athelstan,” Brother Roderick said, clasping Athelstan’s shoulder.

Brother Sebastian joined them in the monastery courtyard, where the gate still hung in disrepair from when the Northmen first pillaged the site. “With the arrival of the heathens to Northumbrian shores, we might never return here again,” Sebastian said.

If this was to be his last time at Lindisfarne, Athelstan so wanted to wander through the monastery’s rooms once more. He needed to feel the love of God soothing his soul, guiding him, and assuring him that all would be well, despite his transgressions.

Inside the monk’s dormitory, Matthew found an old habit for Athelstan and insisted that he change into it immediately.

“I will admit, I almost didn’t recognise you in these clothes,” Matthew said, looking Athelstan up and down.

“Much has happened since I left here,” Athelstan said, clasping Matthew’s arm. “I’ll tell you all about it on the way to Newcastle.”

“I can’t wait to hear, but you need to hurry,” Matthew urged Athelstan. “The tide will soon be coming in, and no monk would want to be stranded here.”

Athelstan agreed. Nothing should delay the monks from making their way to the safety that awaited them in Newcastle. They were already anxious over the raid they had experienced when Ragnar arrived. The threat of other raiders in the area would likely make them even more distressed. Athelstan had no way of knowing if there were more raiders besides the ones that Ragnar had dispatched at the caves.

“Thank you, my brother,” Athelstan said, before Matthew departed to shepherd the last of the monks across the causeway from Lindisfarne.

Alone in the dormitory that Athelstan once called home, he stripped off the tunic and trousers that Ragnar had painstakingly plucked from a dead Englishman. He ran his hand over the sparse hair of his chest, remembering the feeling of Ragnar’s fingers on his bare skin. In all the years that he had lived cloistered in the monastery, he had never dreamed that he would be as touched by lust as he was when in the company of Ragnar. Shoving the sinful thoughts aside, he donned the undersmock, the habit, and the cincture that Matthew had left with him. He pressed the small wooden cross to his lips and prayed that God would forgive his sins and accept his devotion again.

Outside the dormitory, the empty monastery hall beckoned to him. Athelstan knew that he had one more place to visit before he left Lindisfarne forever. He soon found himself in Father Cuthbert’s room, where he had once tended Ragnar. A bowl still sat on the desk. The smell of the peat fire permeated the walls. A breeze from the sea wafted through the tiny window.

He was not entirely surprised when Ragnar joined him there.

“I don’t think they know yet about the attack on the king’s guards,” Athelstan said, looking into the hall to make sure none of the monks could hear what he conveyed to Ragnar. Despite their language differences, the monks and Ragnar had become quite adept at communicating since Ragnar had arrived at Lindisfarne.

Ragnar looked Athelstan up and down, taking in the sight of him in a habit once more.

Athelstan grimaced, imagining how he must look, garbed in the clothing that once again defined him as a monk to Ragnar.

“And they know not about this,” Ragnar said, taking Athelstan’s hand and stroking his thumb across the wrappings that hid his wound.

When Athelstan felt the warmth of Ragnar’s hand, he was momentarily unsure whether Ragnar meant that the monks did not know about their lovemaking or about the wound left by the crucifier’s nail in Athelstan’s palm.

“I fear that they will soon find out, and they will kill you when they learn about the dead men in Burradon,” Athelstan said. “I don’t want this, but it is the only way of keeping you alive.”

“But what will you do in Newcastle?” Ragnar asked.

“I will keep you safe,” Athelstan said, clutching Ragnar’s arm.

“By running away and hiding?” Ragnar asked. “If the monks learn of your sins, they will treat you the same way that the king’s guards did. You will be in as much danger as I am.”

Athelstan closed his eyes and sighed. He felt Ragnar pull him into a warm embrace. He held onto Ragnar tightly, trying to memorize the feeling of Ragnar petting his hair, the sound of his voice whispering in his ear, the salty smell of his tunic. He never wanted to forget what this intimacy felt like.

“As soon as I can, I will make a sacrifice to Odin to ask for your safety,” Ragnar whispered into Athelstan’s hair.

It was true, then. Ragnar was leaving in the longship and Athelstan would accompany the monks to Newcastle, where he could rededicate himself to God. Tears spiked in Athelstan’s eyes. He felt his body curve against Ragnar’s, his hands splayed wide on his back.

“I want to beg you to come with me,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan could not bear the thought of Ragnar begging him to stay. His devotion to God pulled him in the direction of the monks, while his heart and his sinful thoughts rode the waves with Ragnar. If Ragnar asked, if he begged, Athelstan would be powerless against the tug of Ragnar’s words at his heart.

“But you are a warrior, and warriors do not beg,” Athelstan reminded him softly.

Ragnar pulled back and gazed into Athelstan’s eyes. “Nor do they cry, but like you, I cannot keep the rain from my eyes,” he said as he tried to smile.

Athelstan thought his heart would break. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He sucked in a breath, unable to get enough air.

Ragnar brushed his thumbs over Athelstan's eyelashes, wiping his tears away.

Athelstan laid his hand on Ragnar’s chest. He was certain that the agony of his decision showed on his pained face.

Ragnar reached up and touched the lines between Athelstan’s brows. He rubbed his finger on the wrinkles that Athelstan knew to be there when he frowned. Like a trio of runes, they told Ragnar his worries without Athelstan uttering a word.

“Athelstan,” Ragnar said his name tenderly, “you must do what you will.”

Athelstan swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Grieve, as I will grieve,” Ragnar said, trailing a finger down Athelstan’s scruffy cheek. “But please do not despair about your decision. It is not yours to make.”

As difficult as it was to leave Ragnar, Athelstan did not want to believe that Ragnar would leave him. “So, it is your decision to leave me?” he asked, the burn rising from his lungs, his voice breaking. 

“No, no, dear Athelstan. It is not my decision,” Ragnar said, putting his fingers to Athelstan’s lips, quieting him. “The Norns have already woven our story. They have already decided whether we stay or go. Neither you, nor I, have any say in the matter at all.”

“Norns?” Athelstan sniffled.

“The three goddesses,” Ragnar said, his eyes bright. He took Athelstan’s hand from his chest and kissed his fingers. “They sit in the high halls of Uppsalir. It is there that they weave the threads of our lives, yours and mine. It is for them to decide which way you will go, and which way I will go. I am grateful that they wove the thread of our lives together, twined in the same tapestry, the same story, as told by the gods. But it is they who decide the path that the threads of the story will take, not us. So, put your despair aside. If you are meant to be here, in England with your brothers, it has already been decided by the gods, and so you shall stay.”

Ragnar stepped back and let go of Athelstan’s hand.

Athelstan closed his eyes. “And if not?”

“Trust in the gods, for only the gods know.”

Father Cuthbert’s room was silent.

When Athelstan opened his eyes, Ragnar was gone….

Although he anticipated Ragnar’s absence, it didn’t make it any easier for Athelstan to accept it. He stood in the quiet room with its musty smell and the remains of his efforts from when he tended to Ragnar’s injuries. The knife, the needle and spool, the chair where he once sat and read to Ragnar from the Gospel of Saint John. Athelstan stood motionless until he felt a tug on the arm of his habit.

“Athelstan, I have been looking everywhere for you. What is taking you so long?” Matthew asked.

Athelstan touched his fingers to his lips, lamenting that Ragnar had not given him a final kiss goodbye. “I was just saying goodbye to Ragnar,” he said.

“He passed me on his way to the ship,” Matthew said. “We must go.”

And so, Matthew led Athelstan out of the monastery, beyond the rock shaped like a wild boar, to the causeway where Athelstan collected mussels with Ragnar, and onto the sand. Although he was shaken by their parting, Athelstan told himself that this was for the best. He trusted Matthew to urge him on, to take him to a new life with the rest of the monks. Matthew didn’t seem to notice Athelstan’s broken heart.

Athelstan’s feet sunk into the sand of the causeway. A curving half-mile ahead, on the mainland, his brothers waited, their carts piled with their possessions that they would haul to Newcastle.

Athelstan took a deep breath and steadied himself. He tried to tell himself that all would be well again. He would go to Newcastle and study with his brothers. They would be safe from the Northmen who pillaged the monastery—and any other Northmen who threatened England’s shores.

“You’ll miss Ragnar,” Matthew said. He stopped and turned to look back toward the monastery.

Athelstan promised himself he wouldn’t look, but he turned his head anyway.

He watched Ragnar in the distance. He had managed to launch the longship on the rising tide. Now, he worked to untie the ropes that collapsed the sail. His tall lean figure, a silhouette against the summer sky, stretched from the deck to the mast.

Athelstan had tied the ropes securely. This allowed Ragnar to row the ship across the last bit of sea before they reached the sands of Lindisfarne. With the sail down, they didn’t have to worry about the wind taking them off course. Now, Ragnar was preparing to depart again.

“Yes,” Athelstan said, his gaze unwavering. “I will miss him.”

A breeze kicked up and blew Athelstan’s hair into his eyes.

“Come Athelstan, the tide is rising,” Matthew said, tugging his sleeve.

Athelstan blinked back tears. He gave Matthew his arm and they strode along the causeway where each incoming wave reached closer to the path their feet walked.

“You seem different, for having spent so much time with the Northman,” Matthew said, after they had travelled some distance. “You promised to tell me what happened after Benedict’s death.”

Athelstan sighed. He supposed he needed to tell Matthew what had happened.

“We buried Brother Benedict’s body. It was dreadful, but Ragnar looked after me,” Athelstan said. He shifted his eyes to Matthew to gauge his reaction.

Matthew smiled broadly. “I asked him to look after you before you left Lindisfarne,” he said. “Remember?”

Athelstan remembered all too well. “Rest assured, he did as you asked,” Athelstan said with a smile.

“I’m so glad. What did you do after that?”

As Athelstan shuffled along in the sand, he remembered the events of the past week. He believed that if he shared them with Matthew, it would serve to keep them alive in his memory. After he settled in Newcastle, he could take them out to examine them again, like a treasure locked inside a box to which only Athelstan had a key.

“After we escaped the raiders who shot arrows at us, we made camp in the woods. The next day, Ragnar taught me to fight, so I might be able to defend myself,” Athelstan recalled fondly.

“I can hardly imagine that,” Matthew said with a laugh. “But if anyone could teach you such a thing, it would be a sturdy man, such as Ragnar. He barely flinched when we set his broken leg.”

Athelstan remembered the weight of Ragnar’s body as he sat astride his chest when they sparred. The spark of arousal that arose in Athelstan was as fresh in his mind now as it had been on the forest floor.

Matthew gazed behind them to check on Ragnar’s progress.

Athelstan promised himself that he would not look back again to where Ragnar manned the ship at the shore. He focused on the journey ahead, although he was tempted to watch Ragnar sail away.

In the rising tide, each incoming wave stretched closer to his and Matthew’s feet. If Athelstan spoke quickly, he thought perhaps his feet would match the pace of his words and they would arrive on the mainland sooner.

“It amazed me to learn how strong Ragnar is,” Athelstan said, as he remembered their time together and the many talents that Ragnar displayed. “Not only in physical strength, but in knowledge. He caught fish for us to eat and he found clothing and shelter for us when the nights grew dark.”

“It sounds like Ragnar was more than capable of looking after you,” Matthew said.

“I have never, in my whole life, met anyone like him,” Athelstan said wistfully.

Matthew nodded in acknowledgement.

“It was like a dream.”

They had reached the halfway point on the causeway. Athelstan could see the monks on the mainland. He knew Ragnar was the same distance behind him as the monks were from Matthew and him.

“It sounds like a wonderful adventure,” Matthew said.

Athelstan decided to continue with his story as they walked. There was no harm in sharing his memories with Matthew. They had time before reaching the end of the causeway. Matthew was a good friend and seemed eager to listen. 

“Last night, we found the ship. We waded out to it, so we could use it for shelter. We were cold and wet, as night had fallen,” Athelstan said. Then, he grew bold, and added, “But Ragnar kept me warm.”

“No!” Matthew’s jaw fell open. The gleam in his eye told Athelstan that he was enthralled.

Athelstan glanced toward the brothers who gathered on the shore ahead of them. “I can tell you, and only you, that I have questioned my vows of celibacy,” Athelstan whispered conspiratorially.

Matthew punched Athelstan’s arm. “I knew it!” he said, excitedly. “Tell me more.”

The sea breeze battered the causeway, sending a spray of sand across their path.

“I can’t explain it. Before this,” Athelstan continued cautiously, “I had always suspected that the physical union of a husband and wife was something holy—a kind of holiness that we monks were not supposed to experience. But now, after spending the night with Ragnar, I believe that this type of holiness doesn’t only apply to a marriage bed.”

Matthew stopped walking. His eyes went wide with shock. Patting Athelstan’s shoulders with both hands, he asked, “How are you still alive?”

Athelstan would not have believed it himself, if some other monk had told him the tale that he related to Matthew.

“Do you think that God looked the other way?” Matthew asked.

Athelstan pondered Matthew’s question as they resumed walking. God may not have looked the other way, Athelstan realised. To his utter surprise, he determined that God may have actually looked on. He remembered that he had felt God’s presence in every touch of Ragnar’s hands. The presence of God’s love was in every kiss they shared. Athelstan slowly came to the realisation that God had not only looked over him and Ragnar, but he had given his blessing to the two of them. Athelstan’s mind reeled with the new realisation as it washed over him.

“Well?” Matthew asked.

Such was his inherent guilt, that Athelstan did not dare share his understanding so blatantly with Matthew. Instead, he tried to frame it through Ragnar’s explanation, in hopes that it would still make some sense. 

“This I know… Ragnar believes in a different god than we do, many gods, actually. But he believes that our paths are woven by his gods. That seems to make sense to me, whether I am thinking of Ragnar’s gods or our own Heavenly Father. I think that God put Ragnar in my path to show me that love between two people is a holy thing.”

“You believe that?” Matthew asked, stopping to clutch Athelstan’s arm.

“With all my heart,” Athelstan replied knowingly. It was as if a curtain of mystery had been lifted before his eyes. Where he had been blind, now he could see. “With all my soul, with all my being.”

Athelstan leapt quickly to avoid the rushing wave that flooded the causeway where he had just stepped. 

“Oh, Athelstan,” Matthew said. “After all that, how can you leave him?”

Athelstan stopped in his tracks. The water swirled over his sandaled feet. “I don’t think I can,” he said.

“The tide is coming quickly today,” Matthew said, pulling on Athelstan’s sleeve.

Athelstan stayed where he stood.

“We will need to hurry,” Matthew said, glancing behind them. “Besides, it looks like your Northman is leaving.”

“He’s not my—” Athelstan touched his lips, remembering the kisses he shared with Ragnar.

“What is it, Brother Athelstan?” Matthew asked.

“You are right,” Athelstan said. He turned and looked down the causeway toward Lindisfarne. The water had rushed over the land, leaving only a narrow strip of sand when the oncoming waves receded. Ragnar was a short distance from the shore, the sail of the longship filled with wind.

“He is _my_ Northman,” Athelstan said. “He still is, and he always will be. I must go to him.”

Athelstan began picking his way along the wet sand, on his way back toward the monastery.

“But Athelstan! The tide… you will be drowned in the sea,” Matthew implored Athelstan to stop.

Athelstan couldn’t bear to be an accomplice to his brother’s drowning. “Go to the shore,” he shouted as he trudged through the incoming waves.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Matthew cried.

“Godspeed, brother,” Athelstan called to Matthew. “Keep the others safe. Do not let them come after me.”

Although the incoming waves crashed against Athelstan’s legs, he was fearless. He strode forward with single-minded determination to reach Ragnar as he prepared to sail away. He trudged through the deepening water, barely keeping his balance on the shifting sand.

He thought about shouting to get Ragnar’s attention, but he decided that the sound of the surf would drown out his call. He saved his energy for the swim ahead of him. The waves soaked Athelstan’s habit up to his waist. The cold water chilled him, making him clench his jaw. 

If Athelstan drowned in the sea, it was because his own true God and Ragnar’s Norns had determined that it should be. Athelstan decided that, Norns or not, it would be far better to drown while pursuing his love than it would be to die by crucifixion when the English caught up to his and Ragnar’s deeds.

Athelstan would weave his own story from now on.

The sand of the causeway slipped under his feet.

He dove into the sea.

~

If there was one consistent thread that the Norns wove through Ragnar’s life, it was the thread of loss.

Ragnar had lost his parents. He lost Lagertha, the children, his homeland, and his men. Every absence gnawed a fresh hole in Ragnar’s heart as he prepared to depart Lindisfarne. And now, he had lost Athelstan, the only person in recent memory who meant anything to him.

The loss of Athelstan would be a hard one to bear. Although they had only known each other for the passing of two moons, Ragnar trusted Athelstan with his life. If not for Athelstan’s loving care, Ragnar would have died on the beach where his kinsmen had left him.

Ragnar could not bear to turn back to watch Athelstan and Matthew as they strode along the causeway and into a new life. Ragnar cursed the Norns, although he knew it was no use. Whatever the Allfather had planned for him, Athelstan was not to be a part of it. It would serve Ragnar well to leave these shores as quickly as possible, so he could mourn his loss and grieve over what might have been.

With no particular destination in mind, Ragnar waited for the incoming tide to arrive so he could set off from Lindisfarne. He needed to get to the open sea so he could try to put his sadness about Athelstan behind him. Athelstan’s safety in travelling with his fellow monks gave Ragnar a small measure of hope that Athelstan would not be killed so easily for his association with a heathen like him.

The incoming waves grew bolder with every minute that passed. The longship rose up and down as the tide lifted it from the sand. Before the ship became completely free, Ragnar had taken the time to investigate the contents of the crates that the ship bore. It seemed that he found enough stolen supplies to see him off on any length voyage that he chose. Despite the supplies, Ragnar lamented over the loss of the extra pair of hands that Athelstan could have provided, even if he was injured. Hands that once sweetly caressed Ragnar’s back, hands that tended his wounds, hands that pulled on his braids and roused his passion, Athelstan’s hands would not be forgotten.

Ragnar’s sorrowful thoughts turned to worry. He hoped that Athelstan’s wounded hand would heal properly. He tried to put his mind at ease, telling himself that Matthew would care for Athelstan’s injury. Still, he feared that the next Englishmen Athelstan encountered could finish the crucifixion that the king’s guards had begun.

“Oh, Athelstan,” Ragnar muttered to himself. “What will you do without me to care for you?” But he knew very well that Athelstan could say the same thing about him.

When the longship rose and fell freely on the water, Ragnar untied the sail and used the steering oar to aim for the surf zone. In a moment of inattention, he had dared to catch a final glimpse of Athelstan as he and Matthew walked arm in arm along the causeway, but the pain was too great. He turned away before the monks came into focus, never to look back again on the man with whom he shared a beautiful memory.

A spray of sea splattered Ragnar’s face as the longship crashed through the surf. He wiped the salt from his eyes with a hand that stung from his spear wound. After the ship breached the surf, the sea beneath Ragnar became calm. The sound of distant waves splashed on the shore behind him. With the red sail fluttering in the breeze, Ragnar secured the ropes to set sail with the wind at his back.

It was then that Ragnar heard the smooth sound of the ram’s horn echoing across the water.

He had not meant to look one more time, but the horn caught Ragnar’s attention. He turned and gazed toward the mainland. He could barely make out the monks that stood on the shore with their two carts piled high with all of their worldly possessions.

The horn sounded again and Ragnar scanned the beach. The slim causeway was now underwater, swallowed by the incoming tide. There, in the middle, where the causeway would rise from the sea at low tide, a figure in a brown woollen habit struggled in the water.

“Athelstan,” Ragnar whispered in disbelief.

Without hesitating, Ragnar grabbed the steering oar and shoved it hard against the boards. The clatter of shields resounded above the calm water. The groaning longship responded and turned on the sea, the sail collapsing as the wind deflated from it.

“Please mighty Allfather, do not let it be Athelstan,” Ragnar prayed, sure that the monk would drown before he could reach him.

Ragnar felt the wind on his face. His braids flew on the breeze like whips held in a scourger’s hand. He steered left and right, willing the wind to fill his sail again and again, each time making some progress, getting closer to where the monk… Athelstan… it had to be him… flailed in the deepening tide.

As he neared the mainland, Ragnar could see Matthew with the horn in his hand. He had stopped blowing it when Ragnar turned from Lindisfarne and sailed toward the centre of the hidden causeway.

Matthew and the monks who surrounded him looked on in horror.

Ragnar’s pulse raced. The incoming tide would be treacherous to fight and Athelstan would be weighed down in his water-soaked habit. Ragnar begged Odin to fill his sail so he could reach Athelstan before he drowned. 

Pangs of regret flooded Ragnar’s heart. He berated himself for leaving Athelstan there, in Father Cuthbert’s room, without so much as a proper kiss goodbye. With one breath, Ragnar damned the gods for taking Athelstan from him, but in another, he pleaded, please, please, by Odin, by Thor, by Freyr, please let him be reunited with the man he loved.

When Ragnar reached Athelstan’s lifeless body, he leaned over the boards and plucked him from the water with one mighty heave. Although Athelstan’s saturated form had doubled in weight, Ragnar knew not the source of the strength he had acquired to lift it. He understood that it came from a place of the love that he bore for Athelstan. Perhaps the gods helped a little. 

Ragnar collapsed with Athelstan onto the deck. His own clothing became soaked with water. 

“Hail Odin,” Ragnar whispered.

Ragnar laid Athelstan’s body on the deck, wishing it were some other monk and not this cherished one. 

Beyond the longship, there was only silence. Ragnar was well aware of the monks who stood on the shore, some fifty yards away, waiting to see if Ragnar had successfully rescued their brother. Ragnar released the ropes and the sail fell. The tide could take the longship where it would.

Athelstan lay in a wet heap of wool on the deck.

Ragnar slid onto his knees and supported Athelstan’s head on his lap.

Athelstan’s wet hair stuck to his forehead. He had no breath. The wounds from his crucifixion bled afresh and leaked down Athelstan’s blue skin.

“Help me, Odin,” Ragnar cried, taking Athelstan’s head in his hands.

Ragnar railed at the unfairness of it all. He could not bear to lose Athelstan now. Although he had acquiesced to Athelstan’s idea that they should go their separate ways, he did not want to live in a world where he could never touch Athelstan again. There could be no joy in living, if he could never again see Athelstan’s beautiful blue eyes open wide with surprise as Ragnar kissed him. So many memories flooded into Ragnar’s mind. He would not let this go, no matter what path the Norns had woven for him.

“Come back to me,” Ragnar pleaded. “I promise I will never leave you again.”

Ragnar buried his hands in Athelstan’s hair. He wished he had not left him at the monastery, never to be seen again, except in his dreams.

“Please come back to me,” Ragnar cried at the unthinkable—that Athelstan went to his death while trying to return to Ragnar. 

Tears fell from Ragnar’s eyes and leaked down onto Athelstan’s face as Ragnar leaned over him. He kissed Athelstan’s closed eyes, his lips. He tasted the salty sea in his mouth.

“You cannot leave,” Ragnar demanded. “You cannot leave me. I love you.”

Holding tightly to Athelstan’s habit, he pulled at Athelstan’s shoulders and held him against his body. 

“I will never let the gods take you from me again. I will make love to you every day, if only you would come back to me,” Ragnar said, his voice cracked with tears.

With that, Athelstan let out a little cough.

At first, Ragnar thought he imagined it. He drew back, and in doing so, Athelstan’s head tilted to the side. A rush of sea spewed from Athelstan’s mouth. His chest heaved up and down with effort.

Ragnar’s eyes flew open wide. “Athelstan,” he cried. He raised his knee to tilt Athelstan onto his side. He rubbed his hand roughly over Athelstan’s back while he coughed buckets of sea water from his lungs. Ragnar’s heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest, such was his joy.

Athelstan’s spasms began to quiet. He pushed one hand against the deck and lifted his head to face Ragnar.

“With a promise like that, how can I resist?” Athelstan coughed.

Ragnar could not control himself. He pressed his lips to Athelstan’s, the Athelstan that he knew and loved, alive and breathing in his arms again.

Athelstan reached out and cupped Ragnar’s cheek with a trembling hand. “I’ve changed my mind about going to Newcastle,” he whispered, his voice rough. “If you’ll still have me.”

Ragnar could not contain his smile. “Of course, I’ll have you.” He blinked back tears from his eyes as he kissed Athelstan again. Athelstan’s lips were cool, but the colour was returning to his skin.

“Your brothers,” Ragnar said hurriedly. “You need to show them you are alive.”

Ragnar knew that it would be cruel to let the brothers wonder what happened to Athelstan after his ordeal. He helped Athelstan to his feet and stood behind him. He wrapped his arms around Athelstan’s waist to support him while he waved to the monks on the shore.

Matthew sounded the ram’s horn again and waved back to them, acknowledging that he and his fellow monks knew Athelstan was well, and in good hands.

Ragnar held Athelstan close. He slid his fingers into the neckline of Athelstan’s habit and splayed his hand against his skin. He hoped Athelstan was warm enough in his wet wool. Now that he was safe, Ragnar simply could not let him go again. There would be time enough to cast off their wet clothing and find dry clothing among the ship’s stores. Ragnar kissed the top of Athelstan’s head. He noted that the longship had drifted a considerable distance from the shore. Without the sail unfurled, it rode on the whims of the tide. 

“Do you wish to return to shore?” Ragnar asked gently. “At least to say goodbye to your brothers?”

Athelstan turned in Ragnar’s arms. He held him close and said, “There is nothing there for me now. My future lies with you, Ragnar.”

Ragnar pressed his fingers under Athelstan’s chin and tilted his head upward so he could kiss his lips again.

Athelstan parted his lips to let the warmth of Ragnar’s mouth ravish him. Ragnar took care to kiss Athelstan tenderly, to make sure he knew how very loved and cherished he was.

Athelstan’s eyes fluttered open and he drew back. “My brothers, they will see us,” he said.

Ragnar laughed, his heart light.

Athelstan shook his head and laughed with Ragnar. “I don’t care either,” he said. And then, he kissed Ragnar breathless again.

The longship rose up and down on the gentle waves as it drifted out to sea.

“I do not care about what the monks see. Nor do I care about what your Christ God might think of this,” Ragnar said, when Athelstan let him go long enough to catch his breath again.

“And what about your Norns?” Athelstan asked.

“What about them?” Ragnar asked, brushing Athelstan’s wet hair from his face.

“They have spent all our lives weaving this story for us,” Athelstan said. He looked genuinely worried. “And now I’ve gone and ruined their work.”

“They will have to weave a new story,” Ragnar said pressing his forehead to Athelstan’s. “One that tells the tale of our lives as we explore the world together.”

Athelstan stepped back. He took Ragnar’s hand in his and gazed out onto the open sea filled with possibilities and said, “Let’s go.”

~

Athelstan woke some hours later. He took inventory of his limbs, stretched out his legs, and revelled in the afterglow of his and Ragnar’s lovemaking. He had fallen asleep in a nest of blankets and furs, but now a fresh bandage was wrapped around his hand. A soft dry tunic and trousers had replaced his water-logged habit. Above his head, a red sail billowed in the gentle wind. He rolled onto his side and tucked his hands under his chin. In the distance, England’s shore passed by slowly as the gentle sea tried to rock him back to sleep.

At the front of the ship, Ragnar leaned against the wooden dragon’s neck. He scanned the sail with satisfaction, but his face lit up when he noticed Athelstan was awake. He pushed himself from his resting spot at the bow of the ship and stepped gingerly among the crates and scattered shields that littered the ship’s deck. He tested the rigging as he passed and glanced up at the sail to make sure the ship stayed on course.

“You are awake,” he said, when he arrived at Athelstan’s side.

Athelstan smiled and tried to stand. The ship swayed under his feet. Athelstan knew it would take time for him to become accustomed to sea travel. He took Ragnar’s hand to keep steady.

When Athelstan got his balance, Ragnar welcomed him into his arms.

Athelstan sunk into the warmth of Ragnar’s embrace. He noticed that Ragnar had donned some clean clothing as well. With his face buried in Ragnar’s fresh white tunic, it was easy to tell that he had washed up after their blissful reunion. 

“Did you sleep well?” Ragnar asked, drawing back.

“Yes, it seems so,” Athelstan said.

Ragnar leaned toward him and pressed their lips together.

Athelstan loved to kiss—this was something new that he had discovered about himself in the past days. His lips parted, wanting more, but instead he fought unsuccessfully against a yawn.

“I am sorry, I should have warned you,” Ragnar said with a laugh.

“Warned me about what?” Athelstan asked.

Ragnar had a glint in his eye that let Athelstan know he was thinking about the encounter they had within an hour of leaving Lindisfarne. Ragnar slid his hands to Athelstan’s hips and pulled him closer.

Athelstan could feel that he was hard again.

“I should have warned you that such activities tend to make a man very sleepy,” Ragnar said. Ragnar dipped his head and pressed his lips to Athelstan’s cheek. He trailed kisses down Athelstan’s jaw and along his neck.

“Really?” Athelstan asked. He knew he had a lot to learn, but this explained much. He had fallen into a deep sleep soon after Ragnar had taken him apart with his hands and then… oh God… Athelstan nearly needed to cross himself… his mouth… Athelstan remembered how his thighs shook with the pleasure of it. He felt his face flush with heat.

Athelstan needed to take a moment to wonder if that really happened, or if perhaps it was another of those feverish dreams that he had since Ragnar’s first night in Father Cuthbert’s room. 

Ragnar grinned. The bright sunlight made him look like an angel from one of the sacred texts, with his hair gilded in gold. He slid his hands down Athelstan’s arms and laced their fingers together. He pulled him closer.

“You have much to learn, priest,” Ragnar said. “But I will teach you.”

Athelstan drew back and looked up at Ragnar. He could hardly believe this beautiful man wanted someone as ordinary as him. Ragnar was a warrior, a Northman with rippled muscles and the strength of a dozen men. But Ragnar made his desires known and he had woken Athelstan’s desires that he had spent so many years of his life ignoring. Athelstan still worshiped the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, but he had a lot to think about when it came to their relationship to Ragnar.

Ragnar reached up and traced Athelstan’s lips with his fingers. “What are you thinking about?” Ragnar asked.

Athelstan sucked Ragnar's thumb into his mouth. He let his tongue swirl over the taste of it, committing Ragnar’s reaction to memory.

“Easy there, priest,” Ragnar said between moans. “We have plenty of time for you to make up for the pleasures you have missed because of your vows.”

If there had been any doubt as to what Ragnar referred to, the question was answered when Ragnar slid his hand back to Athelstan’s hip and across his flat belly to paw at the laces of his trousers.

“You are as insatiable as I am,” Athelstan whispered, thoroughly enjoying that he could elicit such a response from Ragnar.

“And you are so pretty,” Ragnar said. “I can not keep my hands off you, but I will give you a break if it is what you desire.”

“No,” Athelstan said. “I don’t want you to stop. This is all so new to me. I fear that I, too, cannot get enough of your hands on my skin.”

Athelstan surprised himself by voicing his desire in his own words.

Ragnar raised an eyebrow. “I am honoured that you want to share yourself with me,” he said. 

“There is nothing I desire more,” Athelstan said. He wrapped his arms around Ragnar’s waist and rested his head on Ragnar’s chest.

“Your God is going to be so angry with me!” Ragnar shouted.

Athelstan laughed. “Don’t worry, my God is a forgiving one,” he said, “besides, I think he approved of me giving up my vows of celibacy.”

“Really?” Ragnar asked. “What would make you say that?”

“Something I feel when I’m with you,” Athelstan said. “I’m sure that it’s God’s will that I travel by your side. I cannot describe it. This just feels right.”

“Perhaps you can bring the words of your God to the places we will travel, if it pleases you,” Ragnar said.

“Oh, but I haven’t got my books or—” Athelstan was silenced by Ragnar’s finger across his lips.

Ragnar stepped away and opened one of the crates that lined the boards of the longship. He shoved his hand inside and pulled out the Gospel of Saint John, the very book that Athelstan had brought with them on their trip to Newcastle. Athelstan had forgotten that he left it behind with Ragnar. 

To Athelstan’s surprise, Ragnar dipped his hand into the crate again and pulled out a bundle of quills and a quantity of vellum.

“Where did you…?” Athelstan asked, his eyes going wide. He took the book and raised an eyebrow at the scribing materials. 

“I may have stopped in the scriptorium before I left the monastery for the final time,” Ragnar said.

“You raided the monastery for these?” Athelstan asked with a laugh. “I suppose I should thank you.”

Athelstan wrapped his arms around Ragnar. He could not imagine how he could love this man any more than he already did. His protector and his lover, Ragnar filled Athelstan with delight at every turn.

With his head against Ragnar’s chest, Athelstan observed the shoreline, a mile or more away from the path that the longship sailed. “Where are we?” he asked.

Ragnar turned Athelstan in his arms so they both looked in the direction that they travelled. He rested his hands on Athelstan’s hips and narrated their journey.

“This is still England. We will travel up the coast and find a little island and drop our anchor for the night. Then, if the weather is still favourable, we will resume our journey tomorrow,” Ragnar whispered, his lips brushing the back of Athelstan’s neck.

“Where will we go?”

“I do not know yet,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan clasped Ragnar’s wrist and brought his hand to rest across his chest. He imagined that only Ragnar’s gods or his own God Almighty knew what the future held for them. He excitedly dreamed about the places he had visited as a young monk and the many more places of the world that he might visit with Ragnar at his side.

“Will we go to Kattegat?” Athelstan asked. “I feel like I already know so much about it, I would love to travel there with you.”

“I am not sure,” Ragnar said, holding Athelstan tight. “There are many other places to explore. A wanderer once told me of an island beyond the western lands, where steam rises from cracks in the land so boldly that one can see it from the sea.”

“Steam? Is it a steam from some natural source, or is it something man-made?” Athelstan asked.

Ragnar grunted and pressed a kiss to the tender spot below Athelstan’s ear. “All I can say to you, priest, is this—the steam rising once we get there will certainly be man-made.”

Athelstan laughed and turned to kiss Ragnar again.

The longship cut a path north through the water. The red sail billowed, filled by the breath of the gods.

-The end-


End file.
